


one page at a time

by peggycarterisacat



Series: one page at a time (jaime/arthur) [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Awkward Family Dinners, Canon Disabled Character, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, I have no idea where the line between mature and explicit is so I'm erring on the side of caution, I'm literally just making up westerosi holiday traditions sorry, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Sibling Incest (past), but it takes place entirely over the holidays so make of that what you will, past Jaime/Cersei, technically I guess this is also a college AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-02-19 10:58:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 48,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13122327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peggycarterisacat/pseuds/peggycarterisacat
Summary: There werereasonsJaime had asked Arthur to be his fake boyfriend for the holidays and not someone else — 1) he didn't have plans and Jaime didn't like the idea of him being on his own for the week, 2) he had enough tact to, hopefully, piss off Dad without starting a literal war over the dinner table, and 3) he was possibly the least flirty person Jaime had ever met, so this wouldn't turn into anythingweird.But now it was gettingweird.Not a bad weird— justweird.





	1. Prologue

"So, we never talked about this," came Arthur's voice, crackling, from Jaime's phone. "What would piss your dad off the most? Am I going full Dornish stereotype or what?"

"What do you mean, full Dornish stereotype?" Jaime asked.

"I mean, what should I wear, and how many of your family members do you want me to hit on?"

"No—" Jaime stopped — the thought made him feel ill, and he had no good way to explain it. "Please don't hit on Cersei, she's—" He stopped again. She didn't care about him, he knew, not really. But that his reaction was  _this_  visceral? Even after she'd shown her true colors?

"Okay, sister's off limits, no problem," Arthur said. "But I wasn't just talking about her. Like, if I hit on your dad, is he gonna throw me out on my ass? Or your brother, would that be any better? Do you have cousins coming?"

"Um—" The feeling hadn't gone away; if anything, it had only intensified. "Can you not do that? I just think— the fact that you're a guy, and Dornish, will probably be enough, and it'll piss him off more if he doesn't really have anything else to object to. Maybe play up the accent, though."

"Got it, only hitting on you, then," Arthur said, accent intentionally deepening, and just like that, all the anger coiled up in Jaime's stomach dissipated, replaced by something fluttery. Oh  _no_. "I am a little disappointed, though. I googled how to be a bad holiday guest and everything."

"You googled how to be an asshole? It just comes naturally to me." Jaime couldn't imagine Arthur  _trying_  to be rude. It would just be awkward, like watching a dog walk around on two legs.

"You're not an asshole," Arthur said, almost like he was scolding.

Well, Jaime tried around Arthur — Arthur made him want to be a better person. There was something about his quiet self-assurance— not gloating or boastful, but more of a sense of certainty in everything he did. Something admirable. Something Jaime had always wanted to be, too, but had never quite managed. Too turbulent inside, pulled in too many different directions by too many different things, everything he wanted out of reach.

Was it that he wanted to  _be_  Arthur, or was it something else? The thought that this might not be entirely platonic was beginning to intrude into the forefront of Jaime's mind. It was not a comfortable thought.

"If you want to really piss him off, be nice to Tyrion," he said, to change the subject.

"Okay. I'll be nice to Tyrion—"

"And his girlfriend, he has a girlfriend now."

"—and the girlfriend. And I will be faithful in my attention to you, and only you." Jaime squirmed and pulled the phone away from his face — he was suddenly getting warm. "Oh, how much PDA are you okay with?"

"What were you thinking, exactly?" he asked, weakly.

"Like, hand-holding at least is fine, right? Where are you okay with me touching you?"  _Anywhere_ , Jaime thought — his mind was helpfully supplying memories and impressions of Arthur's hands holding onto a racquet, fingers sweeping through mussed hair, and ohhhhh nope nope nope he should not think about hands grasping hips and running over chests, slipping under clothes to roam over bare skin, or the contrast that Arthur's hands would make against Jaime— "And can I kiss you, and where?"

Jaime put the phone down next to him on the couch and groaned. Arthur's hands caressing his cheek, fingertips catching at the hinge of his jaw, drawing him forward to meet his lips— Glimpses of deep violet and the flutter of dark eyelashes— Dragging his fingers through Arthur's hair, and his  _mouth—_

"Jaime?" Arthur's voice was slightly garbled, from where the phone was sitting next to him. "Are you there?"

He didn't want to, but he picked up the phone again. "Yeah?"

"You seriously need to give me some guidelines here. You're my friend — I don't want to overstep or make you uncomfortable."

Friends. Yes,  _friends._ "Don't grope me at the dinner table, I guess?" he said, laughing weakly. "And yeah, kissing is fine."

"So I can grope you away from the dinner table, then?" Arthur joked. "Just kidding, I won't."  _Please do_ , said a traitorous part of Jaime's mind— he thudded his head against the back of the couch. "And, like. Cheeks? Lips? How much tongue do you want?"

"Haha. Funny," Jaime said, aware that his voice was coming out wooden, but also slightly panicking because he wasn't sure if he wanted Arthur to be joking or not. "Um, yeah, lips are fine."

"Cool—" Something was beeping in the background, then stopped.

"Are you busy with something over there?" he asked.

"Making something for New Year's— there are some things it just doesn't feel like a holiday without, you know?"  No, Jaime didn't know. The last time they'd had anything resembling a cozy holiday was back when Mom was alive. "Is there anything in particular I should bring? I'm mostly done packing, but I just didn't know."

"Bring something nice to wear for dinner on the Father's day," Jaime didn't think Arthur dressed badly or anything, judging by what Jaime could remember of the few times they'd run into each other outside of the gym, but they  _were_  college students. And this would be more effective if Dad didn't have any reasons to dismiss Arthur outright. "I dunno, that and staying up for the Stranger are the only things we really do." Jaime could barely remember the years before Mom died, when they used to do everything, but the years since had been steeped in bitterness.

"What, you don't celebrate all the days? Where's your holiday spirit?"

"Hey, you said you hadn't done anything in a couple years, either."

"I haven't seen my family in a couple of years," Arthur corrected. "And it never felt right celebrating alone. I went home with Rhaegar one year, his dad's super racist, it was a mess, and he very kindly hasn't asked again."

"Yeah, about that, my dad's probably a little racist too. I don't think he'd actually say anything about it, but just so you know." Maybe he shouldn't be subjecting Arthur to this. "At least we're trying to make a mess this time?

"Yeah, something like that," Arthur said, sounding distracted. Something beeped again. "Anyway— shit— sorry— How early are we supposed to get to the train station? Is this like taking a flight?"

"Nope. No security," he said. That was the entire point — going through airport security with his hand was a bitch, and high-speed rail wasn't prohibitively longer than flying.

"Okay, great. I'll see you in the morning?"

"Yeah," Jaime answered, and after they'd hung up he flopped back on the couch and stared at the ceiling.

He was so  _fucked_.

 

* * *

 

There were  _reasons_  Jaime had asked Arthur to be his fake boyfriend for the holidays and not someone else — 1) he didn't have plans and Jaime didn't like the idea of him being on his own for the week, 2) he had enough tact to, hopefully, piss off Dad without starting a literal war over the dinner table, and 3) he was possibly the least flirty person Jaime had ever met, so this wouldn't turn into anything  _weird_.

But now it was getting  _weird_. Not a bad weird— just  _weird_.

It was six hours to Lannisport, and for the last two, they'd been basically cuddled up together, watching a movie. They were sharing a set of earbuds, for fuck's sake. Arthur had really casually put an arm around Jaime's shoulders — they were pretending to be boyfriends now, he told himself, and it wasn't like they had never touched each other before — and the heat still hadn't entirely left his chest, throat, cheeks, ears.

It hadn't been like this before. Not bad — definitely not bad — just, Arthur had never seemed like a particularly affectionate person?

Jaime had never, specifically, thought about what made a man attractive. That thought had kept him up all last night, and that was exactly where his mind was now spiraling to. On a purely aesthetic level, he knew what was nice to look at and what wasn't. Arthur was definitely nice to look at.

But it was more than that. It was ingrained into Arthur's every action and breath — kind, yes, dependable, yes; but also serious and intense and unyielding. Thoughtful, in a reserved kind of way. Jaime had held a great deal of respect for him ever since they'd met; had looked up to him as the sort of man he had once wanted to be. But he had still seemed so untouchable.

 _Not so untouchable now,_  Jaime's mind screamed, as Arthur shifted next to him and they settled even closer together. Arthur's arm was around him. Arthur's hand was— it was resting on top of his. The right one.

"Sorry," he said, pulling his arm away and folding it across his body.

"For what?" Arthur's voice was soft in his ear.

He could feel the rhythm of Arthur's breath, and that made him loose-limbed and calm.

"Nothing," he said.

It was warm, pressed together, Arthur's arm around him, and he hadn't slept much the night before — tossing and turning and trying not to recall the exact shade of Arthur's eyes...

Hours later, something eased Jaime to consciousness, and he blinked a few times, disoriented. He wasn't in his bed — he was resting against something warm?

"Hey," rumbled Arthur's voice around him— Jaime flinched. "We just got in."

"Did I fall asleep on you?" Jaime asked, jerking away.

"Don't worry about it," Arthur said, pulling his hood down from around his face. His hair was mussed underneath, and Jaime couldn’t help wanting to fix it. But Arthur combed his fingers through, setting it right, and Jaime tried not to think about how those fingers might feel combing through _his_  hair. "We're going to be sleeping in the same bed for the next week anyway. Nothing wrong with getting a head start."

Jaime didn’t need the reminder. His breath sharpened, thinking about it. Arthur would be  _right there_  under the covers with him, and Jaime would stay on his side of the bed and try not to think too hard about how easy it would be to reach over and touch him. Definitely  _don't_ think about having sex with Arthur, he reminded himself.  _Don't do it._

But Jaime was very aware of the flutter of his heartbeat as he watched Arthur stretch, twisting his torso, before he stood and tracked down their luggage. Tyrion and his girlfriend were going to be picking them up at the station, and then they would make the drive to Casterly Rock together. Hopefully there would be time to settle in before dinner.

What would this girlfriend be like? What was this trip going to be like?

And what would it be like to see Cersei again?

Even though they both lived in King's Landing, he hadn't seen her since the last time they were both home — last year's holidays, actually — and she hadn't been pleasant to him for a long time before that. Whenever he thought about her, he would get agitated, unable to sleep. He wanted to hate her, wanted to spite her — but in a perverse way, he missed her. Despite her avoidance, her refusal to meet his eyes, her calculating looks when she thought he wasn't paying attention— Despite the actual, physical pain it left in his chest — Jaime had thought heartbreak was an exaggeration, but not anymore. Still, he missed her touch, missed her secret smiles.

Now, she was just hateful and cold.

This was going to be a really awkward holiday, he realized. More than he had thought.

"Welcome to the family," Tyrion said, when he and Arthur were introduced. "It's going to be fucked up, but at least we have good wine."

"Aren't all families fucked up in new and interesting ways?" Arthur mused.

Oh  _man._ He had no idea.

"Tysha's waiting in the car," Tyrion explained as they walked over. To Jaime, he said, "Be nice. She's fucking terrified, and I told her you're the nice one."

"Why the hell would you tell her that?" Jaime asked.

"I had to give her some hope, didn't I?"

"There's hope, and then there's blatantly lying—"

"Hey," Arthur said, catching his wrist. "You  _are_  nice."

As much as Jaime was irritated by it — he didn't want to have to sidestep this conversation for the second time in as many days — there was lightness in his chest at the thought of being worthy of a single word of Arthur's praise, and also the coiling, gnawing dread of knowing he was entirely undeserving.

Still, there was no biting remark on the tip of his tongue, and Tyrion noticed.

"This is just unnatural. I don't know if I like it," he said.

" _Arthur's_  the nice one," said Jaime, flustered.

Tyrion gave the two of them a considering look. "Keep him around. He's good for you."

 _Dammit, Tyrion—_  He knew they were pretending, what was he playing at— but Arthur didn't know Tyrion knew it wasn't real.

"I'd say we're both good for each other," Arthur said.

Jaime was glad when they parted to get into the car — that his face was burning was bad enough, but if Arthur held onto him much longer he might feel the pulse pounding in his wrist. But once they were settled in the back he put his hand out again, on the seat between them, as if expecting Jaime to take it.

Jaime didn't have a good reason not to. They were a happy couple. Affectionate. Deeply, stupidly, in love.

 _Or just stupid_. This was either the best or the worst decision Jaime had ever made—

He put his hand over Arthur's, and as their fingers laced together, he was leaning towards calling it the best.

"So, you haven't met any of the family yet, either?" Tysha asked Arthur, once they were on their way. Her eyes were nervously flicking up to the rearview mirror, watching them.

"No," Arthur said. "I'm here for moral support, really— I don't think we're expecting this to go well."

"Oh." Tysha was tense, worrying at her lip with her teeth. "I'm not expecting… either."

"What would he have against you?" Arthur asked.

Jaime could already guess. Her car was old, and probably second-hand. Clean, cared for, but also battered and scraped up around the edges. When they had loaded their bags into the trunk, he'd noticed residue where duct tape had once held one of the taillights in.

"Tyrion and I met at school," she was saying. "I'm there on scholarship, and…" she trailed off.

"And we are  _Lannisters_ ," Tyrion said with mocking gusto.

"I see," said Arthur, but Jaime didn't think he actually understood. It wasn't something that could be understood before actually meeting Dad, he thought.

Tysha's face in the mirror wore a tight frown until Tyrion put a hand on her arm.

"This will probably suck," he said. "But at least it'll be a good start to the new year? Things can hardly get any worse."

She gave him such a  _look—_  well, none of them were good at this, apparently.

"So,  _Arthur_ ," Tyrion said. Jaime involuntarily squeezed Arthur's hand, making him look over for a moment— where was Tyrion going with this? Nowhere good. "We only heard about you a few days ago. Why on Earth would my dear brother be keeping you a secret?"

"Is it a secret, or is it something precious held close to the heart?" Arthur looked at Jaime — his face had gone kind of soft, and he didn't seem like he was struggling for words. "Love is a living thing — it grows with you, and when it comes from a friendship, it can be difficult to pinpoint when exactly it began. When should we have said something?"

Jaime had to turn his head for a moment to hide the breathy sigh that left him involuntarily, and the probably completely stupid expression on his face.

"More than three days' notice before coming home to meet the family would be ideal," Tyrion said dryly.

Oh, right. "Speaking of, dad doesn't know you're coming."

Arthur blinked. "...Are you serious?"

"He and Cersei never talk to me anyway— I told  _you—_ " he said to Tyrion, who was cackling in the passenger's seat— "and I told Mrs. Hill." Dad's cook — there was being a dick, and then there was messing up her meal planning. Jaime had learned not to do that.

"This makes things more exciting, doesn't it?" Arthur said, but the look he gave Jaime was very unimpressed.

"That's one way to keep the spark alive," Tyrion said archly. "I wouldn't worry about pissing dad off," he said to Tysha. "These two have that more than covered."

If they could take any of the heat off of Tyrion and Tysha, that could only be a good thing, right?

Getting home from Lannisport was always a pain in the ass. Getting  _anywhere_  on the Rock was a pain in the ass. All of the roads — full of tunnels, rock slide warnings, and endless switchbacks — branched out from the town perched on top, which meant you had to drive all the way up in order to go anywhere. Little clustered neighborhoods were sprinkled down the sides on whatever flat surfaces could be found or cleared, but the nicest homes were carved directly into the Rock.

When they were kids, Tyrion had been convinced the tunnels of the old castle connected to their house somewhere— they  _were_  Lannisters, after all, and their family had ruled in ancient days. They'd spent a lot of time exploring the ruins, too, back then. No one was technically supposed to be down there, but Jaime had never been afraid. Who cared if it was dark, or unmapped, or structurally unsound? He hadn't.

None of the adults had approved of them running loose down there, but it wasn't put to a stop until one of Cersei's friends went missing, only to be found fallen off an old crumbling staircase.

Everyone had been very concerned about where they went, after that.

"Hell of a view," Arthur said, looking out over the sea while Tysha pulled into the driveway. The driveway went down, which usually threw people off— the entire house was down from here, so as not to break up the view or the perfect landscaping. Lannisport was visible across the harbor when the weather was good, like it was now, and the curve of the coastline was nice enough, too. But Jaime's favorite was when the city was all lit up at night.

He slid his hand back into Arthur's— it was silly, but Arthur was always calm, confident, steady, and Jaime's heart was jumping all around his ribcage just now. He hadn't seen Cersei since this time last year, dad was going to be all disapproving of his decisions again, and there was  _no_  way Tysha was going to go over well.

A completely different kind of anxiety gripped him when Arthur turned and smiled at him. "You ready?"

 _No._  "Yeah, sure."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything I know about amputations/prosthetics is from google. Sorry if I fucked anything up.
> 
> I'm gonna shoot for having this all finished by the end of the actual holiday season, we'll see how that goes...
> 
> Title from True Colors — Zedd and Kesha.


	2. Father

Going home was both familiar and not. In broad strokes, the house was the same, but the little differences added up to something jarring. Some of the furniture had been moved around over the past year, and, on the couch in front of the big picture windows, Cersei was sitting in some guy's arms.

That was definitely new.

"Jaime—" she said, turning, the guy's hand visible at her waist— but her smug smile faded at the edges when she saw Arthur's hand in his.

_Ha._

"Wonderful to see you," Tyrion said gregariously.

"This is my sister, Cersei," Jaime said to Arthur. "And... I honestly don't know." To Cersei, he said, "This is my boyfriend—" he stumbled over it a little— it was so weird, calling Arthur his boyfriend—

"Arthur Dayne," he introduced himself. He held his hand out to Cersei, who took it gingerly, as if it was coated in poison. "It's so great to finally meet the family." His accent had gone heavy again — there was a different cadence the Dornish spoke with, music in the rise and fall of the words, emphasis on different syllables. It was all but scrubbed from his normal speaking voice — a slight change in tone at the ends of his sentences sometimes, mostly when he was tired.

"I wish I could say the same, but someone never _told_ us you were coming." The smile she fixed on Jaime was hard and brittle. "But I understand— we all have things slip our minds when they're not very important."

For a heartbeat, Jaime saw Arthur's jaw clench, and something flickered in his eyes before he said kindly, "You shouldn't be so hard on yourself," and turned to greet the huge guy getting to his feet behind Cersei.

Lifting her chin slightly, she met his eyes evenly, but the curl of her lips didn't match the fury burning there. She was going to do something to make him regret this, but, standing next to Arthur like he was now, Jaime couldn't really bring himself to care. "This is Robert," she said tightly. "We've been dating for eight months now."

Holy crap, he was built like a brick wall.

"None of us had heard of you, either," Tyrion said, but Robert missed the dig.

"And how long have you been together?" Cersei asked, sickly sweet.

Jaime went along with what Arthur had said earlier. "I'm not sure when exactly it started. I woke up one morning and realized we'd been more than friends for a long time. Arthur's always been important to me, ever since we first met." It wasn't, strictly speaking, a lie.

Arthur's arm curled around his shoulders, and he kissed Jaime on the temple. "It was the same for me, too. Have I ever told you that?" he murmured.

His head started spinning when Arthur's lips touched him, and only stopped when he looked into Arthur's eyes. When was the last time he had taken a breath?

"I'll never understand how you can not know _when_ ," Robert said. "Isn't is obvious when you start sleeping together?"

Arthur's eyes cut over to him sharply, and his face tensed up just a little.

"I guess just fucking doesn't mean it _has_ to be a relationship. But why even go to a relationship from there? If you're already getting what you wanted."

"...sorry, what?" From the angle of his eyebrows, Jaime could tell that Arthur was very unimpressed.

"I mean, that's what's important."

Jaime really did _not_ need to know that about Cersei's relationship—

"Different people have different priorities." Arthur's arm slipped down to Jaime's waist and tugged him a little closer. "What I want is Jaime— to be a part of my life, for as long as he'll have me."

"We'll see how long that is," Cersei said. "Shallow feelings pass quickly, and Jaime's never been serious about anything." Her eyes drilled into Jaime's. _Except me_ , they said.

"This is serious," Jaime said, reaching across to lay his hand on Arthur's chest, asserting… something. _Shit_ , it was the right hand, but Arthur didn't flinch away from it — he brought his hand up, too, holding him there. "I've _never_ felt this way before — I didn't know I could feel this way."

Cersei's mouth twitched. "We'll see."

"Shouldn't we go unpack?" came Tysha's voice, quietly—

Cersei's attention shifted, and she strode over smoothly, a lioness stalking prey. "I don't think we've been introduced?"

"Tysha," she said, hesitantly taking Cersei's hand.

"A pleasure to meet you," Cersei purred.

"Yes, let's unpack," Arthur said, putting himself between Cersei and Tysha to scoop up the bags again. Tysha took the opportunity to retreat down the stairs, and the four of them exchanged a _look_ once they'd reached the landing.

" _Holy shit_ ," Tysha whispered.

"Yeah," Jaime and Tyrion said, in unison.

Once they'd both gotten into Jaime's room and the door clicked shut, Arthur let out a breath. "Somehow I wasn't expecting that," he admitted. "Not from your sister, at least."

"Yeah, well, family can be complicated." Understatement of the year.

"Don't I know it," Arthur said. He put his bag down and stretched. "You doing okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Jaime said.

Arthur paused and looked him over head to toe. There had once been a time when it was difficult to make Jaime feel self-conscious, but that was long ago. But Arthur's attention wasn't unkind — it was a different feeling gnawing at edges of his mind.

"I have a confession to make," Arthur said. "I didn't come just to piss off your dad." A few quick steps took him right to Jaime's side — the bag Jaime was holding was plucked from his arms and set off to the side before he'd taken his attention off Arthur, and he held both of Jaime's hands in his. Jaime tugged the right one away. "I wasn't really joking earlier." 

When he was talking about love growing from friendship? When he had said that Jaime was precious to him, held close to his heart? When he'd said that he wanted to be a part of Jaime's life— _as long as he'll have me?_

"I really am here for moral support," he continued. Oh. Yeah. That. "You just tell me what you need."

Yeah… Jaime wasn't going to do that. That sounded like a great way to ruin their friendship.

"Earlier—" he said. This probably wasn't a great idea either, but oh well. "When you were talking about love. Where did that come from?"

"Like, in a philosophical sense?"

_In a more-specific-to-us sense,_ he thought. "I mean, you didn't even have to think about it."

"Oh, that." He shrugged. "There are a few really obvious questions they're going to be asking us, right? So I thought about the answers already."

"Questions?"

"How did we meet, where was our first date, why the fuck are they just finding out about me _today_ ," he said, with a stern look on the last part. "I think the best idea is to take turns talking — it always goes wrong in the romcoms when they're both word-vomiting at the same time and saying completely different things and bullshitting it back together as they go along."

"You watch romcoms?" That sounded _completely_ out of character.

"I might have been preparing for this. They're like an instruction manual of what not to do."

Huh. Actually, that was a really good idea. "You're taking this really seriously. I didn't even put this much thought into it."

"I'd gathered," he said, but there was a smile hidden in the corners of his mouth— more amused than annoyed. "But if I'm going to do something, I'm going to do it well."

"What was our first date, then?"

"I thought you should pick that out," he said, unzipping his bag and starting to rummage through it. "You're more of a romantic than me."

"What?" There was no way that was true. "'Love is a living thing' and all that about secrets held close to the heart?"

"I just meant that I'm not one for grand gestures. You're more passionate than that, I think."

_How long had he been thinking about this?_

"I'd say a bar or something, but that's not exactly _romantic_ , and it doesn't really seem like your scene," Jaime said. This really wasn't his thing— he'd never actually thought about dating someone. He'd never been interested in anyone but Cersei. Not until now.

"I don't dislike it, but you're right— I mostly go to stop Rhaegar from doing stupid shit, or when Ashara and her friends want to go dancing without getting hit on. Apparently I'm intimidating."

Jaime took the excuse to look him over, slowly. Intimidating? Arthur was almost always calm and composed, not to mention the most genuinely nice person Jaime knew. But, well, physically—

"Yeah, I can see that," he said. He'd seemed deathly serious before they got to know each other well, and he still didn't smile often. Until they'd started this act, anyway. And his stature— They were about the same height — maybe Jaime was slightly taller — but Arthur was broader in shoulder and chest. He knew Arthur worked out, outside of the games they played together, and now that he'd shed the coat and hoodie it was obvious.

And now that he thought about it, seeing him in action was a treat in itself. His every movement was fluid, deceptively quick for his size, and — though Jaime'd seen it rarely to put action — there was _power_ behind his hits when put the intent into it.

He'd probably be good at just about anything physical, Jaime thought, a shiver running down his spine.

"What are your ideas? Date ideas," he said, to shake those thoughts away, but he belatedly realized that asking how Arthur would hypothetically _date_ him wasn't the greatest solution.

He tilted his head a little, thinking. "Museum? Picnic? There was that weird outdoor classical music series at the Dragonpit last year. The theatre department puts on pretty good plays. Street fair? Dumb touristy stuff?"

_How_ did he think he wasn't romantic?

But that was something to start with. "The White Raven festival," Jaime decided. "We smuggled in booze—" because it just wouldn't be _Jaime_ without doing something like that— "and kissed at the top of the ferris wheel. Is that romantic enough?"

He _tried_ not to think about Arthur's mouth, but it turned up into the little smile Arthur wore sometimes, when he didn't want to let on that he was all that pleased.

  
"It sounds perfect," Arthur said. "See? Planning out the bullshitting. It works." He checked the time. "But we should probably get ready for dinner." 

Getting dressed was humiliatingly difficult sometimes — buttons were a problem, but they were getting easier with practice. Arthur seemed to intuit that Jaime wanted no help with it, spending more time than was probably necessary picking out a shirt. Rich, vibrant colors looked amazing with his coloring — might be wild on anyone else, but they just worked on him. When he buttoned it up, he left the top ones undone, exposing the line of his throat to his collarbone — Jaime fumbled his last buttons.

"Ready?" he asked, fingers itching to neaten out Arthur's hair, but he had already noticed and was doing it himself. "Just a warning, if you thought Cersei was bad, I can guarantee you Dad will be worse."

"I don't give a shit what he thinks of me," Arthur said. "I'm worried about Tysha, though."

Yeah. "Me too," Jaime said. The rattle of the garage door sounded up above — open, and closed. "He's home."

Arthur's eyes met his, grim. "I wish you good fortune in the wars to come," he said. "We're gonna fucking need it."

"Or wine," Jaime agreed. "Dunno about good fortune, but we definitely have wine."

 

* * *

 

Jaime's first prerogative was getting some alcohol into his system to make the entire evening more bearable, but once Arthur caught sight of Dad, he strode on over to greet him.

Jaime followed— he couldn't abandon Arthur to this alone. "Hi Dad," he said. "This is Arthur."

Amazingly, Dad didn't look too disapproving yet, but the night was still young.

They were shaking hands— "A friend from school?" Dad asked, and that was probably why.

"Not exactly," Jaime said, putting an arm around Arthur's waist.

Dad noticed it immediately, sharp eyes boring into the two of them. "This is a phase," he said, as if his word was law. It usually was. "Get over it quickly."

Arthur tensed and he looked like he was about to say something, but Dad was already turning away.

"Later," Jaime murmured, and nudged him towards one of the couches — Tyrion, sitting back with a full glass of wine, and Tysha, sitting forward at the edge, looking so tense she might snap. She had tried her best, Jaime thought, but her dress didn't fit right and her lipstick was already a little smudged. Not the Lannister level of polish. Not like Cersei, who was studying her closely — Jaime knew she would be cataloguing every fault.

Wine glasses were waiting for them on the coffee table — the kind of glasses that Tyrion poured, filled past a third, or a half, or whatever someone somewhere had once told him never to fill past. Something about letting it breathe, but that wasn't really why anyone in their family drank wine. Jaime passed one to Arthur as he sat, then settled in next to him.

Arthur was to his left, where Jaime had been trying to keep him, but Jaime didn't quite trust the new hand with red wine over white furniture, so he also had to hold the wine glass in his left. That meant he had less of a reason to touch Arthur, but his heart was jumping around in his throat and he really wanted—

But Arthur switched his wine glass to his left, too, so he could rest his right on Jaime's knee.

Robert was introducing himself as "Robert Baratheon," with Cersei wrapped up in his arms. Dad nodded with about as much approval as he ever gave, and Cersei puffed up even more, if that was possible, her lips curling into a satisfied little smirk. As their conversation turned more towards politics — Robert was interning in someone's office in King's Landing, and wasn't giving _completely_ stupid answers to Dad's questions — Cersei's eyes found his. The smirk deepened.

Jaime bounced his knee against Arthur's hand to get his attention. "You okay?" he asked.

"A _phase_ ," Arthur grumbled. "That's not how it works. You okay?"

Jaime blew out a breath. "Thinking this might have been a mistake." Arthur's eyes widened, just slightly, and Jaime rushed to amend— "No— bringing you wasn't a mistake. Coming home at all might have been."

"Well, we're here now," Arthur said, pressing his leg against Jaime's, but before elation could carry him too high—

Dad fixed his attention on Tysha, "You are?"

Her spine went even more ramrod-straight, if that was possible, and Tyrion's hand on her elbow didn't relax her at all.

"This is Tysha," Tyrion said.

Dad's expression didn't change. "And you are?"

She wilted. Across the room, Cersei's grin took on a satisfied tilt.

"We know each other from school. We've been dating four months," Tyrion said, glaring up at Dad as if he was daring him to say something about it.

He did. "It's fortunate that you're graduating this year. I didn't realize they'd relaxed their standards so much."

Tysha's face shuttered, and Tyrion's hand found hers. Jaime didn't know that there was anything to say that wouldn't make the situation worse— pointing out she'd gotten there on scholarship certainly wasn't going to anything to raise her in Dad's opinion.

But before there was any chance, Mrs. Hill unobtrusively entered the room and signaled to Dad that dinner was ready— he nodded, and they meandered into the dining room. Jaime snagged the open wine bottle off the coffee table and emptied it into his glass as they were leaving. Arthur shot him a worried look, but Jaime shook his head— this was par for the course for a Lannister family dinner.

As they served themselves, Cersei eyed Tysha like a lioness hidden on the savannah. Dad had been openly critical, and Cersei was the one who still tried hardest to get his favor— Tyrion had accepted long ago that Dad would never look kindly on him, and Jaime was still trying to free himself from his expectations. But that didn't mean his disapproval didn't hurt.

When he was younger, perhaps, Jaime hadn't felt it so badly— at least not as badly as Tyrion, or even Cersei at times. But when he started developing his own interests and opinions, the cold looks and cutting words turned to him as well.

Tysha had noticed Cersei's attention. "Jaime—" she said, determinedly ignoring it, "How did you meet Arthur?"

Jaime looked over at them. Tyrion's face had lifted into an absolute shit-eating grin — he _knew_ what this was, they had talked about it — but Tysha looked earnest, if nervous. Probably Tyrion hadn't told her.

"At the gym," Jaime answered. It was the truth, but he didn't want to give all of the details. "We started playing racquetball together." He didn't know exactly what had made Arthur invite him to play a round one day — probably pity, watching him struggling to do things with his off-hand. But he'd taught him to play the game, and— well, he'd not gone easy on him, exactly, but he wasn't a dick about it and he was patient through Jaime's frustration. And there was a _lot_ of frustration, but they'd figured it out together. Building the dexterity on his left side, making little modifications in the places where it was impossible to compensate.

And now that Jaime had the new hand, they were repeating the process. He had to relearn _everything_. Jaime still didn't understand exactly how it worked, but thinking about the individual muscles and trying to make them move, and working out how that translated through the sensors— He'd never put that much effort into just _moving_ before. His wrist still didn't do what he wanted it to all the time, and the limitations of the hardware confined his fingers to a number of set positions. 

"Is that all you're going to tell them?" Arthur asked, putting his hand on Jaime's knee and giving him a smile that he couldn't quite read. Jaime couldn't begin to guess what he was going to say. "Well, sometimes he wears shirts that are just a _little_ too tight—" He ran the back of his hand up Jaime's chest, catching fingertips under his chin for just a second before he drew away again, leaving heat behind where he had touched. Heat blooming up through Jaime's chest, settling in his cheeks— "Always a welcome sight—"

"You're giving _me_ shit, but—" Jaime blurted out, his voice raspy. "Have you ever looked at yourself in the mirror? Your _ass_ in those shorts—"

Cersei's fork clattered down onto her plate. Tyrion was cracking up on his other side, Robert's expression very clearly said _what the fuck,_ and Dad was glaring at the two of them, unamused. Jaime stopped. He'd said _way_ too much—

But Arthur, if anything, looked even more pleased. "Thank you," he said. "Do you know how difficult it is to get an actual compliment out of him?" he asked the room.

"Yes, I do," said Tyrion. His face and voice were tight, trying to keep the laughter in.

"Hey, I say plenty of nice things to you," Jaime protested. His face was going to catch fire, and he was going to die. Simple as that. This was such a terrible idea—

"Please, go on," Arthur said, and his gaze was so electric that Jaime's mind completely short-circuited.

"Your eyes," Jaime said. His brain wasn't connecting, and the words were just coming out. "I've never anything like them before. They're beautiful." Crap, was he supposed to call a man beautiful?

But those eyes crinkled up a little into a real smile. "Thanks," he said softly, and leaned forward to cover Jaime's lips with his.

All things considered, it was a very chaste kiss, but when Arthur drew away, Jaime acutely felt the loss. "Wow," he said breathlessly, distracted by the way his lips tingled, how he wanted to hold Arthur there and never part.

"If you're done?" Dad said in a tone that brokered no argument.

But Arthur— "Almost," he said with a sunny grin. He booped Jaime on the nose before turning his attention back to his plate.

Across the table, Cersei had drained her wine glass, and her knuckles were turning white where she clutched the stem.

Jaime couldn't help the smirk growing on his face as her expression soured — hairline fractures in the veneer of her false civility.

She turned back to Tysha. "What does your family do?" she asked. In the animal kingdom, showing teeth was a threat — how had the behavior changed in people?

"My mom works at a daycare, and dad works in construction," Tysha said. The words came out robotically and she sat with her shoulders hunched in, as if trying to take up as little space as possible.

A sneer crossed over Cersei's face, and Dad glanced over at her, his deep frown etched into his face.

"Are you applying to colleges now?" Arthur asked, before either of them could say anything. "What do you want to study?"

"Computers— programming," she answered.

Jaime shut his eyes— _Not_ a wince, he told himself, but actually it probably was. Why did Arthur have to ask that question in particular? Jaime knew what was coming in just a moment—

"Have you declared a major yet, Jaime?" Dad asked.

"No," Jaime said shortly. He'd have to declare at the end of the academic year, and he had no more direction than he'd had when he first started college. He knew what Dad wanted him to do— business or pre-law or political science, so that he could follow in Dad's footsteps when it came to the company, or the regulatory board, or the politics.

But the more he thought about it and the more space he had from all of this, he began to feel uncomfortable with they way Dad operated. It could be cutthroat, mercenary. He was pretty sure the doctor who delivered Tyrion never saw work again, and then there were all of the businesses and political opponents Dad had destroyed.

It was just the way life had been, growing up, but Jaime was starting to realize it wasn't the way everyone thought — mind leaping to the ways to rip someone down, the words that would cut to the quick. It wasn't the way _Arthur_ thought.

"If you keep being so indecisive, you'll never amount to anything," Dad said, carving a slice of turkey as if he hadn't even said anything.

"I want to do something that helps people," Jaime said on impulse, but his stomach sank even as he said it— it was vague, ill-formed. Dad wouldn't accept that.

Sure enough— "That's naïve," Dad said. "What do you think you'll accomplish?" He waited a moment, just to make a point — Jaime didn't have words, and he knew it. "You don't know? You've always been aimless in life. No ambition — you'll end up like your grandfather at this rate—"

"Ambition doesn't always look the same," Arthur said. _Dammit_ , why had he said anything— "It's admirable to want to help people— and important."

Cersei cut in. "Where did _that_ ever get anyone? Jaime— This kind of rebellion is just pointless. You'll come around — you'll stop denying us, your _family_."

Jaime poured himself another glass of wine.

"I've been researching law schools—" she was talking to Dad now— "Making contacts with professors. If you could put in a word, I'd have a better chance at—"

" _You_ want to study law?" Dad asked.

Lips pressed tight together, she lifted her chin to meet his derisive stare.

"Yes," she said.

"You're not half as clever as you think you are," he said impassively. "You'll need to prove to me you won't fail."

She turned to Robert — for support? But he'd gone through several glasses of wine, and wasn't really paying attention. She glared and kicked him under the table. He flinched. "Yeah—" he said. "Cersei's doing really well at… everything. And stuff."

Her face only grew more stormy, but Dad refused to give her any more of his attention. She exhaled sharply and cast her eyes around the table. When she was feeling hurt, she wanted other people to hurt, too, Jaime was realizing. It wasn't her best trait.

"Arthur," she said. "We hardly know anything about you. What does your family do?"

"Engineers, mostly." He shrugged. "One of my sisters is a flight attendant — she likes the travel, but I think she'll be sick of it in a couple of years."

"So she's a waitress?" Cersei asked. "How prestigious."

"She's always done things her own way—" Arthur said. His jaw was tight, but it hadn't made its way into his voice yet — Jaime pressed their knees together under the table. "She works hard and she's happy. That's what matters."

"If you're okay with being a _flight attendant_ ," Cersei said. She took a sip of wine, letting the glass linger at her lips. "What is it you do?"

Arthur's mouth flattened into a line. "I'm student teaching and finishing up some certifications now, but my degree was in physics," he said. Jaime coughed on the sip of wine that had gotten caught in his throat— He'd known Arthur wanted to teach, but hadn't known _what_.

"Is that surprising to you?" Dad asked. He had been studying them all evening.

"No—" A boyfriend would definitely know what the hell his boyfriend had majored in— He turned to Arthur and— "I was just thinking that I would've paid a _lot_ more attention if you were my physics teacher," was the first thing that popped into his head, and that was what popped out of his mouth.

_Hold you down, like I'm giving lessons in physics_ , from that stupid fucking song from like three years ago, was the second thing that popped into his head.

The third thing _was not helped_ by Arthur's hand on his thigh.

"Would that have helped you focus on the class, though?" Arthur asked.

"Nope," Jaime said. Those poor high school kids wouldn't know what hit them. " _Everyone's_ going to be asking you for special tutoring."

Arthur's eyes flicked down. "Huh."

"They've already started, haven't they?"

"Yeah."

"Hey, you don't get a young, hot physics teacher every day—"

Cersei cut in. "You know what they say," she said, an ugly smile on her lips. "If you can't do, teach— I suppose _something's_ got to carry you through life. A shame— looks fade."

"That's fucking rich, coming from you," Jaime snapped—

Cersei's fist slammed down on the table—

"He's not wrong, though," Robert said, and she turned on him, fuming—

"You're embarrassing yourselves. All of you." Dad's voice cut through the room like a bandsaw through cardboard. "Where have you all gone wrong? None of you will carry on my legacy — none of you worthy of the name Lannister."

Cersei jerked back as if she'd been slapped, and Tyrion contemplated the wine swirling in his glass. Jaime just felt hollow inside, as if his chest had been scraped out by a gilded spoon. Arthur's hand tightened on his thigh, but this time, it couldn't make him react.

"That's not true," Arthur said. "Cersei's driven and wants to follow your example— I can tell just by the way Tyrion talks that he's magnitudes smarter than I'll ever be. And Jaime—" he glanced over, and there was steel in his eyes that Jaime was entirely unused to seeing— "Jaime's persistent and passionate, hardworking and kind. He's perceptive and he thinks so quickly—"

…None of those were words Jaime would use to describe himself. Maybe passionate? But _rash_ would be a better word. It seemed like every second decision he made was a fucking stupid one, and he wasn't sure he'd accomplished anything meaningful in his life.

"Who are you to say anything about this family?" Dad demanded.

"Someone who cares for your son," Arthur said, but his face had gone hard, too.

Silence fell over the room like a heavy down blanket. The thick kind, that you might be able to smother someone with. Jaime looked around. Half of the table was drunk, and the other half was just pissed off. Actually, probably more like a Venn diagram of angry and drunk.

Anger was simmering just under Arthur's skin— his grip on Jaime's knee had tightened so much it almost hurt. Cersei had drained her glass again, and her hands shook as she poured herself another. Robert was completely blitzed and looked as if he had no idea what was going on— he probably didn't.

Tysha was taking deep, measured breaths, and her hands were down at her sides, clutching to the seat of her chair. Tyrion poured her more wine, and she let out a long, shaky breath. They looked at each other for a long time, saying gods only knew what without actually speaking, and then she closed her eyes and took a gulp of wine.

Now she was getting into the holiday spirit.

 

* * *

 

When they were back in Jaime's room, Arthur didn't say anything for a long time.  

"Well. That's my family," Jaime said, stalking further into the room.

"Yeah," Arthur said. He ran a hand through his hair. "A lot of little things make more sense, now."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Arthur's face went very solemn again as he gathered his words. "I know you don't think you're a nice person— it's not your instinct, and I've noticed that. That makes more sense now. But you _try_ , and that's a hell of a lot more than most people can say."

"Whatever that's worth," Jaime muttered.

"It's worth a lot," Arthur said. "I don't think anyone really lives up to their ideal self — hell, I don't — but all we can do is our best. Every day. And I think you want to do that."

"It's a lot more complicated than that." Jaime wanted that, he truly _did_ , but things were never that simple. There were expectations everywhere he turned— all at odds with each other, and all yanking him in different directions until he was dizzy with it.

"It is," Arthur agreed.

Jaime sighed. "I think we managed to piss him off, at least. Mission accomplished."

A little smile broke across Arthur's face. "His face when I kissed you was pretty great. So worth it."

Jaime hadn't noticed— he'd been a little distracted by other things. Like Arthur's mouth.

"So you didn't enjoy kissing me for its own sake?" Oh, _please_ let that have come across as a joke—

"I never said that," Arthur said with a wink, but he also wandered off into the room past Jaime, carefully not brushing too close.

Joking, then. Just joking. So much fun, being pals and joking around with his definitely straight friend. His very hot, definitely straight friend.

Who was, at this moment, unbuttoning his shirt and sorting through his half-unpacked things, leaving it hanging open.

"Was there anything you wanted to do?" Jaime asked, mostly as a half-hearted attempt to distract himself from the sight. _Not_ a good idea to keep thinking of Arthur like this, but then again, Jaime'd never had a ton of willpower when it came to his feelings. They consumed him, judgment and thought giving way to impulse; devotion held far past the point of rationality. Cersei was testament enough to that — his inability to see her manipulations or the imbalance in their feelings until it was all shoved in his face, impossible to ignore.

_Foolish_. Arthur would never want that from him. Arthur deserved better.

"Nothing in particular," Arthur said, pulling on a shirt — long sleeves, so he was very covered up, but it looked soft and that didn't stop Jaime wanting to touch him. "Just— something quiet? I need to process everything that just happened."

"Totally understand," Jaime said, shrugging into an old T-shirt and digging up a pair of pajama pants.

"Do you mind if I open up a window?" Arthur asked. "It's fucking cold, but it's been a long time since I've heard the sea."

It wasn't actually all that cold, but— "Yeah, go ahead," Jaime said, pulling an extra blanket out of the closet and tossing it at Arthur's face when he turned.

He laughed and cocooned himself in it, and they both kind of settled into bed and did different shit, but next to each other. Even that made him feel warm and peaceful whenever he looked up and saw Arthur concentrating on whatever he was reading. Maybe this wouldn't be a complete disaster. Yes, the day had worn at him, but just being near Arthur was starting to ease away those worries, making dinner feel far away.

Jaime squeezed his eyes shut.

_What the fuck have I gotten myself into,_ he texted Tyrion, but Tyrion wasn't helpful.

_Hahahahaha_ , he texted back, and Jaime threw his phone down onto the mattress.

"Tired?" Arthur asked. "I was just getting cold again." He closed the window, still wrapped up with just his head poking out of the blanket, and practically dove back under the covers.

"You really wanted to hear the waves, huh?" Jaime asked, clicking off the light.

"I grew up by the sea, too," he said. "Little island off the southern coast. Not much there besides the town. And I never open my windows at home, King's Landing literally smells like shit."

Arthur called King's Landing home, not the town where he'd grown up. And he said he hadn't seen his family in a while, and that everyone was fucked up in their own unique ways.

"I'm glad you came here with me," Jaime said, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wished he could take them back. He didn't want to make this even weirder.

But— "Yeah, me too," Arthur said.

Jaime fell asleep feeling lighter than he had in years.


	3. Warrior

In the morning, Arthur's shirt was gone.

"Hi. Good morning," Jaime said, blinking and telling his eyes to stay trained on Arthur's face.

"Oh— sorry," Arthur said, and leaned over the side of the bed to grab his shirt off the floor. Jaime tried not to notice the curve of his perfect, perfect ass. Tried not to study the play of the muscles moving in his back, as Arthur stretched and pulled his shirt back on. And he tried to ignore the flashes through his mind of what it might be like to touch him, to run fingers down his spine, to map out the dip and swell of each muscle with his hand.

When the shirt was back on, it was a disappointment that he hadn't really taken advantage of the view, but also a relief that he wouldn't be caught doing so— Jaime got a reprieve when Arthur put his arms behind his back to stretch again and it tightened across his chest—

"It's warmer than I was expecting with someone else in bed," Arthur was saying.

"What, you don't sleep with anyone often?" Jaime asked, kicking himself as he said it. He didn't want to sound too interested — that would definitely make things weird, and he didn't want to think about who Arthur might really be fucking.

But once he pictured it— what would it be like to be in bed with him for real? Jaime remembered the feel of his body from the train. To be against him without the layers of clothes, skin to skin— what did his mouth taste like? What noises would he make? How engrained was his accent, exactly — would it start to slip as he forgot himself? Would he be smiley, like yesterday, or intense?

He needed to not think about this, warmth pooling deep and low— he tried to do long division in his head, but math had never been his strong suit. Not helping.

"Not really," Arthur said. He rubbed his eyes. "I tried doing the friends with benefits thing with someone for a while, but it wasn't what I wanted." He rolled his shoulders, one after the other. "Have you ever just been… way more into someone than they were into you?"

"Yeah," said Jaime. That, he could relate to. It had happened with Cersei — the _look_ she had given him the first time he tried to touch her after he came home from the hospital — and it was happening now. Arthur might not be quite that disgusted by him, but he didn't want the same things. If he knew what Jaime wanted— if he knew how Jaime had started to think of him— "It fucking sucks."

"Yeah. It does. I just don't think I'm wired for it — casual anything. Maybe it's not the way things work anymore, but I want something that will last."

 _Then why are you here with me_ ? Jaime remembered the feel of Arthur's hands on him _all_ of yesterday, and that kiss that had taken his breath away— it had been such an innocent kiss, barely more than the touch of his lips, and it still overwhelmed him, turned him into a giddy teenager—

But he didn't ask. Arthur probably wasn't even interested in men, so this wouldn't register as having any kind of meaning to him.

"And I guess I'm kind of picky about who I'd want a relationship with, and a lot of people have, you know. _Expectations_ of what a Dornishman should be like." Arthur looked over his shoulder at Jaime with a bitter little smile. "Yay, racism."

"I'm sorry," Jaime said. "I mean, I have no idea what that's like, but it's gotta be shit."

"Yeah, it is." Arthur let out a long breath, opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, decided against it, and stood up.

"What is it?" Jaime wondered.

Arthur didn't say anything for so long that Jaime regretted even asking, but eventually the words came out. "I know it's what we're playing with here, but it's the worst part — to me, anyway. The idea of dating someone and pissing off their family just by existing. What the hell am I supposed to do about that? I can't just be someone else, I can't ask them to go against their family for me, and then what you thought was solid just washes away."

"I'm sorry—" Jaime's stomach twisted itself into a giant knot. Why the hell had he thought this was a good idea? "I didn't think of that—"

"What, like you're responsible for centuries of prejudice?"

"No, but I shouldn't have asked you to do this."

"If I wasn't okay with it, I wouldn't have agreed. I know you, I know you didn't have bad intentions." He shook his head. "Just dark thoughts — I shouldn't have said anything. It's not your problem to deal with."

Maybe it wasn't. But Arthur shouldn't have to deal with it, either. Perhaps there was no escaping it for him — but that was all the more reason he shouldn't have to face it on his own.

When Jaime was a kid, he'd always imagined himself a certain way. The reality of how he'd turned out was entirely different, and in Arthur he saw pieces of that ideal. It was possible. The evidence was right here, close enough to touch. Yet Jaime hadn't been able to live up to it.

Arthur made him want to try again. The way he lived his life — he seemed so certain of who he was, and that trickled down into everything he did. He'd befriended Jaime at the lowest point in his life — challenged him, but hadn't judged him. Jaime had been floundering, stuffed so full of bitter anger that he was choking on it, with no one to turn to.

Honestly? Jaime hadn't been a pleasant person to be around. He wasn't certain he was all that pleasant _now,_ either, but somehow Arthur was still here.

And this was something that had been bothering him, and Jaime hadn't even noticed. Arthur had stood up for him dozens of times against prejudiced dickbags — time to start returning the favor.

"Ready to face the day?" Arthur's tone was light, but his face was tight, his smile forced.

"Only if you are."

For some reason, that wiped away some of the worry lining his face, and as they walked up to breakfast together, Jaime thought he saw a slight smile on his lips.

The table was quiet — Tysha was the only one who didn't look painfully hungover, and she was sitting all tightly bunched up again, pushing the food around on her plate.

"Coffee?" Jaime asked Arthur— they could deal with the time bomb at the breakfast table in a minute. Arthur nodded, and Jaime grabbed mugs— then realized he had no idea how Arthur liked his coffee. That was something he should know.

He wandered back over and kissed Arthur on the cheek— Arthur's hand rose to brush against Jaime's side, catching and tracing a line to his back. It took a moment for Jaime to remember why his mouth was lingering by Arthur's ear. "How do you take your coffee?" he asked in a whisper.

"Black," Arthur whispered back.

Jaime kissed him again and went back to pour the coffee, cringing. Was that too much? Maybe not— Arthur followed him over to take the mug, and they stood in the kitchen together a moment.

"I can make eggs, and that's about it," Jaime offered. Not to brag, but he could also boil water.

"Sounds great," Arthur said. "Can I help?"

"This is the one thing I can do, let me have it," Jaime said. The self-deprecation only came across a little in his tone, he thought.

He'd put _effort_ into learning this one. One night, just after he'd gone from depressed to completely fucking pissed off about his inability to do _anything_ , he went out to buy one of those huge flats of eggs from the supermarket. Addam came over and sat on his kitchen counter and passed them to him, one by one, while Jaime watched a youtube video and tried to teach himself to crack them one-handed. It took all night, but he'd managed it.

Even though Addam never mentioned it, Jaime felt kind of weird about letting him see that. They'd been friends since they were kids, but not _close_ , and it was just— unsettling. Vulnerable.

Jaime never really had close friendships, had he? Arthur was the only one he felt comfortable letting see anything like that. The only one who felt _safe_.

Oh man, that was a thought Jaime didn't want to analyze before a full cup of coffee.

They joined the others at the table, and ate quietly for a few minutes, before Arthur asked, "Any plans for the day?" Maybe he actually wanted to know, maybe he was just making conversation?

Cersei looked up and glared, rubbing her temples. Tyrion shrugged, Tysha shook her head. Warrior's Day had been Jaime's favorite when he was a kid — running around, sports. But that had lost some appeal when he'd lost the hand. Though, maybe, after the work he'd done with Arthur—

"What's even around here?" Robert asked.

"Yeah, we could do something," Jaime said, though slightly resentful he was agreeing with Robert about anything.

"I looked it up last night— there's some stuff going on in Lannisport," Arthur said. "Mostly kids' tournaments, if you'd want to go watch. Or there's probably a pick up game or something we can find somewhere, if you want to do that," he said, pulling out and scrolling through his phone again. "Yup, there's stuff on Facebook. Take a look." He slid the phone over to Jaime.

"Do you really find it fun?" Robert grumbled. "It's so boring playing against people who suck."

"I wouldn't say they suck," Arthur said. There was that very slight raise of one brow that meant he was getting irritated — Jaime couldn't really blame him.

But Robert wasn't worth getting upset over. Jaime pressed his leg against Arthur's under the table — it got his attention, even if he didn't look over. He relaxed, just a little, and rested his hand on Jaime's leg. The warmth shot straight through him and he wanted more — more of Arthur's touch, the feel of skin against skin, their bodies tangled together, almost as one—

"If you're not going to compete, why bother?" Robert was saying.

"Can't you just enjoy it? For yourself, for the game. To spend time with someone—" Arthur's hand tightened on his thigh, just a bit— "or to teach?"

"Says the one who's good at literally everything," Jaime said, to break the tension.

Arthur looked at him then. "I'm really not," he said, but his mouth had gone soft, like he was flattered—

"If you want a challenge," Jaime said to Robert, "why not try something new? It should be easy for you. Show us how it's done."

He looked a little interested. "Like what?"

"Have you ever played broomball?" Jaime asked, innocently, and he saw Arthur press his lips together to stifle a laugh.

"What's that?" he asked.

"It's sort of like hockey, except you're running around with a broom," Jaime explained. It was completely accurate, except he was leaving out a couple of details.

Arthur didn't see fit to enlighten him, either.

"That doesn't sound difficult."

"Everything has its little challenges and tricks," Arthur said neutrally.

"Let's do it," Robert decided.

"Great." Jaime grinned.

Arthur raised an eyebrow at him, trying to look stern, and drummed his fingertips on Jaime's thigh — but there was a smile lurking in the corners of his mouth.

After they'd changed and piled into Tysha's car — Cersei and Robert would be following on their own, thank the gods — Tyrion asked, "What _exactly_ is broomball?"

"Just what I said," Jaime said. "It's like hockey, and you're running around with a broom. On ice. In shoes." He looked over at Arthur, who was sitting back, watching him and smiling. "It's the one thing I've seen Arthur completely fuck up."

"I'm from Dorne," he laughed. "And it was still at the end of summer. That was the first time I'd seen ice outside of a literal freezer."

They'd only tried it a few times, but it had been fantastic for Jaime's self-esteem — not specifically seeing Arthur fall on his ass multiple times, but the fact that everyone new to it looked like a fucking idiot. It had been while he was still getting used to the new hand — a sport that didn't require a ton of finger dexterity, and where long sleeves and gloves were expected.

He was a little better adjusted now, he thought. It had been a while since anyone had seen him and done an obvious double-take — the hand looked natural enough, and it was mostly functional for what he wanted to do. There were some people out there in the world who had really specialized prosthetics — for rock climbing, or gymnastics, or whatever — but Jaime didn't think he'd ever be comfortable drawing that much attention to his.

People were petty and judgmental. They didn't know anything about him — Not a damn thing.

But the gloom over Tysha's face hadn't lightened throughout that entire exchange, and Jaime thought it had been at least a little entertaining.

"What's wrong?" Tyrion asked, leaning over to touch her arm.

She let out a long breath.

"I woke up early," Tysha said tightly, "And your father said some things." She inhaled through her nose, deeply. "He tried to pay me to break up with you. _Money_. As if that's—" she made a frustrated noise, low in her throat. "As if that would—"

Arthur glanced over at him, and at Tyrion. Jaime wasn't very surprised, and he knew Tyrion wouldn't be, either. "That's fucked up," he said.

"What's new?" Tyrion said dryly. To Tysha— "You got a nice attempt— he'll try something else, and it'll be worse. If you want to stay here, maybe—"

"I'm not giving up," she said. "You have to endure this— so will I. He's not chasing me off."

Tyrion looked at her, for once lost for words. It was a moment before he recovered. "He won't do anything _that_ bad to me— Whatever he feels, I'm still family."

"I think you have a weird view of what _bad_ is."

Arthur was nodding, just a little.

Jaime let out a long breath of his own. This was not— not—

Yeah, he was starting to figure out that his home life wasn't exactly normal. It was uncomfortable to think about. He loved Dad— not a warm fuzzy kind of love, but it was there. And he knew he was a disappointment— he'd once been the favorite, when he was little, but when he'd gone off in his own direction it had all changed. He would never be the golden son Dad wanted— probably couldn't, even if he tried.

But Arthur had said something— put voice to the words Jaime couldn't bear to string together in his own mind. Jaime didn't— somehow, defending felt like a betrayal, when it came to his family. But _Arthur_ —

It was nice. It was more than nice, actually— it was something he'd never allowed himself to want.

He shouldn't have dragged Arthur into this— what the fuck was Dad going to try with them?

* * *

 

Robert took three steps onto the ice rink and slipped. Jaime put a fist to his mouth to choke down a laugh, but Arthur grabbed onto the wall so he could help him up. Arthur's mouth was very carefully flat.

"Oh look— ice skating lessons," he heard Tysha say, distantly, and when he glanced over they were headed off towards the practice rink on the other side of the building. Probably to get away from Cersei, who was sitting on the dingy metal bleachers, surrounded by eager players and looking as if she wanted to throttle something. Some people had actual sport brooms, and others had brought household ones— some people had the right shoes, and some people were probably going to be sliding all around like Robert. Just a mix.

And so many people had showed up that they would rotate out frequently to give everyone a chance to play— none of it was anything near official, but that wasn't the point today.

When the ball snapped into play, Jaime could still _see_ everything— he could read intention in his opponents' eyes, in their telegraphed movements. He knew where they were going to go, how they were going to pass. He knew where he needed to be, what he needed to do.

Making his body do it was a different thing entirely.

He whacked the ball with the broom, and it didn't quite go where he wanted it to. Was the angle weird, or was it his grip? Holding onto things wasn't really the problem with his right hand— it was holding onto them correctly. Balancing a top-heavy wine glass, getting the broom into the right position, at the angle he wanted— not crushing delicate things between insensate fingers.

Not feeling things had to be the weirdest part. Out of all his senses, Jaime had always been tactile most of all. Not being able to tell those subtle movements— not sensing force, tension, resistance— it was difficult to know how to move without it. He hadn't realized how much he relied on it until it wasn't there.

But seeing Robert's feet go out from under him and fall, flailing, to the ground made him feel a teensy bit better.

When it was time for them to switch, Jaime stepped off the rink easily enough— Arthur followed. He hit the wall, hands first to absorb the impact. "I'm never going to get used to this," he said, and carefully stepped onto solid ground, using Jaime for balance.

All of Jaime's senses went to where Arthur's hands were resting— his hip, the dip in his back. He shrugged, trying to ignore it. "You're doing better than him," he said, nodding at Robert, who was still struggling to make it to the door off the ice.

"Honestly, that's probably not much worse than we looked the first time," Arthur said, watching with one eyebrow raised. His lips moved the few inches closer and he kissed Jaime's cheek. "Is it okay if I grab your ass?" he asked in a whisper.

Jaime nodded — hopefully Arthur wouldn't notice how immediate that reaction was — but then got caught up in wondering. Arthur was, in fact, squeezing his ass now, and heat was coiling up inside him. Was this entirely for Robert's benefit, as he finally made it off the ice and passed behind them? Or did Arthur _like_ it?

His next breath came deep, all the way to the bottom of his lungs. He thought of Arthur putting his hands on him in bed, Arthur hauling their bodies close, pressing them up against each other, feeling him up without layers of fabric separating skin from skin—

Another deep breath. More players were out on the ice now, yes, he should think of that instead. Maybe it would cool his blood.

"You okay?" Arthur asked. "You're a little distracted."

"Just thinking— you want to stay a few more rounds?"

"Sure," Arthur said. "Tyrion and Tysha went ice skating, right? Have you ever been?"

"Once or twice, probably, for birthday parties when I was a kid or something." Arthur had turned to look down towards the other end of the building. Ice skating lessons. "Want to try it?"

Arthur nodded, a little smile tugging at his cheeks. Something fluttered in Jaime's chest.

There was a short lesson on the other rink at the top of each hour— It didn't take that long for Arthur to figure it out in his borrowed skates, but he still held Jaime's arm for balance. Not that Jaime would say anything. He liked the way Arthur's hands lingered on his body. Here, in front of people, he had every excuse to let it happen. To enjoy it.

Tyrion, still circling with Tysha, gave him a searching look as they passed.

But Jaime could return the touch, couldn't he? It wouldn't be too out there?

Off the rink again, Jaime stopped Arthur before they sat to take their skates off. He felt like such a child when he stepped up into Arthur's space and wrapped his arms around him— but Arthur returned the embrace without comment. Jaime held on maybe a moment longer than he should have, his breath coming painfully short. How long had it been since he'd touched someone— anyone?

Arthur kissed his forehead when they parted, and Jaime tried not to be too disappointed that it hadn't been his lips.

* * *

 

They spent the evening with takeout and video games— Jaime had always been of the opinion that fighting games were in the spirit of Warrior's Day, and this was always how they'd spent the evening as kids. Jaime wasn't anywhere near as good at it anymore, but that wasn't as much of a blow to his pride.

Tyrion and Tysha battled it out, laughing, characters flipping and kicking and punching all over the screen, and Jaime tried to think of an excuse to kiss Arthur again. Last night had been short, simple, and sweet— but Jaime wanted to know more, wanted to taste Arthur and feel his breath hitch. The very nature of this was fleeting — in a week, it would fall to dust.

This was selfish. It was entirely selfish.

Tonight, Arthur put on a tank top for bed — it wasn't as if Jaime had never seen his arms before, but not in this context. Not as Arthur was about to get into bed with him.

But, as Arthur huddled under the covers, Jaime reminded himself— Arthur was not his to touch, no matter how much he wanted it.

"I know I'm going to warm up, but this just sucks," Arthur complained. "Why do temperatures below, like, 60 exist?"

"Is that what you consider cold? I hate to be the one to tell you, but it's not even winter yet."

"Sometimes I ask myself why I ever left Dorne," he groaned, and burrowed a little deeper into bed. His entire head was underneath the blankets now, just a bit of mussed hair sticking out.

"If you're cold—" Jaime started, but Arthur's phone started buzzing on the nightstand.

" _D_ _ammit,_ " Arthur said, with feeling, and emerged from his den just enough to pick it up.

A timely interruption, considering Jaime had been just about to suggest another way of warming up.

"Do you mind if I facetime my sister?" he asked.

"Go ahead," Jaime said, closing his eyes and turning his face to the ceiling. _Get a grip._ They were just friends. _Friends._

Arthur was sort of half sitting up, head and shoulders out of the blankets and looking deeply unhappy about it. That was probably why he was inching closer and tucking himself against Jaime's side. His thumb hovered over the screen. "Do you want to say hi? Or is that weird?"

"Uh, sure."

Arthur shivered, and when Jaime put his arm around him, a satisfied little hum came from deep in his throat.

It was really not helping.

He picked up the call. "Hey, Ashara."

The girl on screen was a bit lighter than Arthur, but she had the same startlingly violet eyes and the same black hair. Would Arthur's be so curly if he let it grow out?

But now that he was thinking on that track, Jaime wanted to know how Arthur's hair would feel against his fingers. Did he like head rubs? What did his face do when he was feeling good, and how many different ways could Jaime make that happen?

"Hey," she said, and her nose scrunched up as her eyes scanned over her screen. "Where are you?"

"Near Lannisport," Arthur answered. "This is Jaime," he said, turning the phone so that the camera caught Jaime for a moment.

Aware that they were both halfway under the covers and this must look pretty bad, Jaime waved. "Hi."

"Uh," she said. "This is serious enough that you're going home to meet the family and I'm just now hearing about it?" Her voice had traces of the accent in it, too, and Arthur matched it when he spoke to her. Not exaggerated like he had been doing all day, nor the aggressively standardized way he spoke around strangers, but light and musical.

It was really nice to listen to.

"Hey, I still don't know anything about whoever it is you're seeing," Arthur pointed out, but he didn't sound upset in the least. He shivered and burrowed a little more under the covers, and rested his head on Jaime's arm. "Besides, this isn't what it looks like."

Jaime took a deep breath. Yeah. He needed that reminder. This was all pretend, and they were just friends, and as soon as they left here, things would go back to as they were. No more kisses, no more casual touching, and definitely no more sleeping in the same bed.

"It looks pretty cozy to me," she said, skeptical.

"Ashara, I know what I'm doing," he said, but he didn't elaborate.

"I really hope so." She shook her head. "Anyway, I just wanted to say hi, and happy holidays."

"Same to you. Where are you— Did you do anything today?"

"North," she said. "Just here today and tomorrow, then I'm hopping around Essos for the week— holiday pay is nice." She blew out a breath. "You know I don't— You know. The guy I'm seeing, he's Northern, and it's not weird to not celebrate. Maybe next year. You do anything?"

"We tried broomball again, and it wasn't a complete disaster."

"Glad you didn't break your ass again. This is the guy from the gym, then?" she asked, studying Jaime again, then giving Arthur a significant look.

"I said I know what I'm doing," Arthur repeated, frowning. "His sister's jerk boyfriend wiped out pretty hard, though, after he talked himself up all morning. That was pretty funny."

"You're so petty," she laughed.

"I mean, I didn't want him to actually get hurt. He's not a terrible person, just kind of a dick."

"Well, I'm glad the universe doled out some justice," she said. "I don't want to keep you — I'll call next week or something? Love you."

"Yeah, love you too," he said.

Oof. _Don't think about it._

As soon as his phone was plugged back in again, Arthur was back under the mound of blankets.

"Why are you so warm, it's not fair."

"Why _did_ you leave Dorne?" Jaime asked.

"School," he said. "Dornish schools don't have a very good reputation — racism — and we don't get a lot of federal funding — again, racism. We all left for school. Except for Allyria, which sucks because she's the smart one, but my brother's being a dick about it."

"Your brother?" Jaime asked. He hadn't known Arthur had a brother.

"Yeah." His voice was muffled by blankets, and he was speaking softly now. Jaime held his breath so he could hear. "My parents passed a few years ago. We had a big falling out— grief does weird things to people." Jaime knew that was true. "Allyria's the only one who still talks to him, and I'm pretty sure that's only because she lives with him. She's still in high school, she doesn't have much choice. Sorry, I don't mean to dump this on you—"

"No, it's fine." Arthur talked about his sisters sometimes, but he'd never mentioned the brother before. Jaime reached out, not knowing if Arthur would want any kind of touch, and bumped his fingertips against the back of Arthur's hand. He immediately flipped his hand over to take Jaime's, giving it a squeeze. "I think I get it," Jaime said. "It hasn't been the same around here, either, since Mom died. I don't think Tyrion would be here if he had a choice. At least he'll be off to college next year..." he trailed off. He hadn't meant to hijack the conversation like that, but Arthur didn't seem to mind.

"Yeah, I've noticed how your dad is with him. He doesn't deserve that. Neither do any of you."

"What do you mean by that?"

Arthur's face emerged from the covers, and he met Jaime's eyes. "Your dad's way too critical of you, too. And there's no reason for it. I mean, he's free to not like your decisions, but the shit he was saying last night? Absolutely not true, you'll be fine. No matter what you decide. You'll make it work."

With the way Arthur was looking at him, Jaime could almost believe it. "Yeah. We'll see." Jaime had to declare a major by the end of the year, and he had no more direction than he'd had when he started college.

Arthur squeezed his hand again. "I mean it. Look at everything you've done."

"What do you mean?" Jaime asked, but then he saw that Arthur was looking at where his hand was charging on the nightstand. "That doesn't count."

"Why not?"

"It's not—" Jaime struggled to put it into words. "It's different. I'm not _smart_."

"That's not true," Arthur said simply. "Even if it was, _smart_ isn't the only thing that matters."

"What else is there?"

"Hard work. And not giving up," Arthur said. Jaime could only look at his eyes for a moment before it hurt too much. There was so much affection there, or something like it, and Jaime knew he didn't mean it.

"I'm not— I haven't _done_ as much as you think. And you have no idea how many times I almost gave up."

" _Almost_ , though. Not completely."

Jaime pinched his mouth shut. _Arthur_ was the reason for a lot of that, and still Jaime wasn't good enough. But he couldn't just go and say that. "I'm tired," he said instead, pulling away from Arthur and clicking off the light.

The mattress shifted a little as Arthur settled down into it again. "Just one last thing, and I promise I'll shut up about it," he said. "Making big life decisions just to make someone else happy, or because it's what someone else thinks you should do. Doing what they want doesn't guarantee you'll make them happy. And they're not the one who has to live your life. You are. So you might as well do what'll make _you_ happy."

"Who did you disappoint?" The words shot out of Jaime's mouth before his brain caught up. "I'm sorry, that was—"

"Don't worry about it," Arthur said. In the dark, Jaime couldn't tell what was behind his words. "Let's just say there's more than one reason I don't talk to my brother." He was quiet for a moment, but Jaime could sense he wasn't quite done. "I really don't want Allyria to be in that house anymore," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry," Jaime said, just as softly. "Can you— how old is she?"

"Fourteen. I keep telling myself that if I can get a job right away, then maybe… He _has_ to know she's not happy. If I can take care of her, I don't think he'd keep her there out of spite." He sighed and rolled onto his side. Jaime could see the starlight from outside reflecting in his eyes. "Teachers get paid shit— I mean, so do flight attendants, but Ashara and I have talked about this. I think we can make it work."

"If anyone can do it, it's you," Jaime said.

"I hope so."

Arthur shifted around a little, getting comfortable, but they didn't say anything more that night.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read/commented/kudos-ed, I really appreciate it!


	4. Smith

Smith's Day was always the weird one. You were supposed to build something— one year, when they were really young, Jaime remembered spaghetti-and-marshmallow towers. The dry, brittle strands had cracked easily in his hands, and he'd ended up just eating the marshmallows. And starting a marshmallow war with Cersei.

Mom had laughed, he thought. He couldn't remember the sound, or her smile, but he remembered the warm feeling it had left in his chest.

But if the spaghetti had snapped so easily in his hands as a child, it definitely wasn't going to work out now. It was so fragile, and grip strength was difficult to judge when he couldn't feel what was happening.

"Want to do something with gingerbread?" Arthur suggested when he asked. "Maybe it's a little ambitious — we did it once, maybe six or seven years ago? Allyria wanted to make Castle Starfall— it's close to where we lived. She might still have a picture." He started typing on his phone.

"We could do Casterly Rock?" Jaime thought aloud.

"A lump?" Tyrion said. "A lump with gardens on top?"

"It does sort of look like a lion from across the harbor," Tysha pointed out. "From the right angle."

"Sort of," Tyrion conceded.

"What would you do, then?" Jaime asked.

"Dragon," Tyrion said immediately.

"How the fuck is that going to work?"

Tyrion shrugged. "Carefully?"

"These things fall apart if you try to use too much glue," Tysha said.

"I think we can do it, but it might have to be a little abstract," Arthur said. He flipped his phone around and zoomed in. There was the castle— the outer wall was made of pieces all notched and slotted together rather than glued, and the towers were kind of obelisk-y, tapering up to points. One of them was really fucking tall— Jaime zoomed the picture out to get a sense of scale.

It was sitting on a table, yeah. But that tower dwarfed the girl standing next to it.

"What the fuck," Jaime said.

"Yeah, that one was some sort of witchcraft," Arthur said. "She's always been good at this kind of thing."

Tysha had grabbed a pencil and notepad. "I think we can do this," she said, sketching out pieces—

"Do the wings like it's flying," Tyrion suggested, and she scribbled that into the plans.

"Do we have a blowtorch?" Jaime wondered.

"What the fuck," Tyrion said.

"How else are we supposed to do fire?" Jaime asked. "Just for a picture— I'm not gonna light the place up or anything."

"We could melt down some hard candies?" Arthur suggested. "To get the right colors. Less of a fire hazard."

"Boring," Jaime said.

Arthur laughed. "I'll check if we've got everything," he said, getting up.

"Good luck with that," said Tyrion. "Good luck finding anything in that kitchen."

"I'm always up for a challenge," Arthur said.

"You'd have to be, to date him," Tyrion joked.

"Not a challenge," Arthur said, kissing Jaime on the temple as he passed by.

"You guys are  _ so cute _ ," Tysha gushed, as soon as he had left.

But Tyrion was snickering. " _ How _ did you get yourself into this one?"

"Shut up," Jaime muttered.

"What do you mean? You guys are, like, relationship goals."

A breath of laughter came out Tyrion's nose. "I hope not."

"Be nice," Tysha said, rapping her knuckles against the back of his hand.

"Don't actually base any kind of relationship on us," Jaime said.

She looked at him, brows furrowed. "Do you think he doesn't care as much as you do?"

"That's what's actually happening. Like objectively."

"You don't think he means the things he says?"

Jaime blew out a breath. "He's playing it up to piss off Dad. I asked him to."

"That doesn't mean he doesn't mean it. Are you paying attention to everything else — what he's telling you with his body?"

Tyrion snorted. "I really don't want to think about what they're telling each other with their bodies."

She flushed. "I didn't mean it like that! I just meant— he's so affectionate. You two are always touching each other and he looks so happy and he's not—" she hesitated on the word for a second— "afraid of your dad. He argued with him. I wish I could do that, but — I don't mean to speak badly of him — but your dad is  _ terrifying _ . And you don't deserve that. Neither of you do," she said, squeezing Tyrion's hands. "You deserve so much fucking better." She tilted her head, trying to meet Tyrion's eyes, but he didn't want to look up at her. "You do."

Jaime leaned back on the couch and looked up at the ceiling. "He's just a really good person." That didn't mean he was feeling the same things Jaime was.

Tysha made a frustrated huff. "I mean, like— you see it, don't you?" she asked Tyrion. "I'm not going crazy here?"

" _ Someone's _ crazy here," Tyrion said, but his usual snappiness wasn't there. "But I do see something."

"We need to make  _ him _ see it," she told Tyrion.

"I think I have an idea," Tyrion said.

"Double date?" she said, eyes sparkling and face splitting into a grin.

"Uh, no, that wasn't what I was thinking, but it could work."

"Maiden's Day. I'm going to figure something out," she promised. "You'll see."

"So, I think we have almost everything — we just need some of the weird stuff. Molasses, some spices. Whatever you want to use to decorate. Oh, and more butter, this thing might be big," Arthur was saying, coming back from the kitchen. "Took me forever to find it all, though. Nothing makes any sense in there."

And just like that, they were off to the grocery store.

Arthur held his hand as they pushed the cart around the store. The  _ right _ hand.

"You don't have to touch it," Jaime told him. He couldn't quite look Arthur in the eye, and his chest was tightening up— "I know it's weird— you don't have to pretend to be okay with it."

"If it bothers you, I won't," he said, letting go.

"Doesn't it bother you?" Jaime asked.

"It's your hand," Arthur said, giving him a look. "Why would it?"

Jaime let him take it again.

* * *

 

Jaime tasted a bit of dough. The spices weren't what he'd been expecting — Arthur had used things Jaime'd never even heard of, not that Jaime knew the first thing about cooking. A touch of cayenne pepper seemed like a weird thing to add, too — definitely spicy, but somehow it all worked together. Appropriate for a dragon.

Arthur was scoring guidelines into the rolled-out dough— he and Tysha were being meticulous about the dimensions, rolling it out to a precise thickness and measuring every bit of the plans they'd decided on. Jaime had tested Arthur's focus earlier by planting floury handprints on his ass. He hadn't seemed to notice, or— was he just trying to goad Jaime into touching him more?

No, that was just wishful thinking.

"Careful," Tysha told Tyrion as he cut out some of the shapes with a knife. "It has to be exact."

"Oh crap, how do we get this onto the pan without fucking it up?" Arthur asked. It was one of the really big pieces.

He and Tysha were fussing over it when Cersei and Robert came up, ready to go out for the day.

"What are you doing?" she asked, looking over the chaotic kitchen with a critical eye.

"Gingerbread," Jaime answered shortly.

"I can smell that," she said. "What are you  _ making _ ?"

"Dragon," Tyrion answered. "Want to join us?" he asked, in a tone indicating he'd prefer her to do just about anything else.

"That's childish," she said, but she picked up a paring knife and found an unused section of dough. She made a few quick, neat cuts before she walked away, heels clicking against the kitchen tile, and grabbed her coat.

Tyrion leaned over to look. "Aww, that's sweet of you," he said.

"You can't have a dragon without riders," she said. "Don't read too much into it." The door snapped shut as they left.

Jaime looked over, too. She'd even made little faces on her dragon riders, cut into the surface of the dough with the tip of the knife. It left a funny feeling inside him — as if something in his chest had turned to liquid and was trying to figure out how to be a living thing again. There had always been parts of her that were fierce and sharp, but in the days before the world had hardened them both there had been other things, too. Softer, happier moments. It was weird to catch glimpses of that, especially now.

"Who should they be?" Arthur asked, carefully lifting away the scraps and transferring the gingerbread men onto a baking pan.

Some bits of history class had been interesting to Jaime— by no means all of it, but some details of wars and knights had stuck with him. "In one of the civil wars, there was a prince or something— he jumped onto his enemy's dragon mid-battle. I always thought that was badass."

"They all died horribly," Tyrion pointed out.

"Still, what a way to go."

"I'm so glad you'll never be anywhere near an actual dragon," Arthur said. A burst of hot air hit them as he opened and closed the oven door.

"Yeah, species extinction is fantastic," Jaime said, mostly just to be contrary.

"You know what I mean. I'm glad you'll never have the opportunity to jump off a dragon mid-flight because I know you'd do it, if it would give you a good opening." As he was passing by, he pressed his hand to Jaime's chest, just below his heart, and kissed him on the cheek.

Before the thought had time to connect in his brain, Jaime stopped Arthur and turned to catch his lips instead, like he'd been wanting to do ever since their last kiss had ended. There was a moment, before Arthur's mouth figured out what it was doing, where his hand flexed and fingertips scraped across Jaime's chest as if trying to find grip there. But as he began to return the kiss, his hand flattened out against Jaime again, palm over Jaime's quickening heart— heat radiated out from where they touched, and Jaime's head was spinning from it— so much more than the split-second brush of lips they'd shared before.

Jaime opened his mouth to Arthur, trying to get closer, deeper, but Arthur's hand kind of flinched and he moved away, leaving Jaime breathless, stupid, devastated. Too much— that had been too much, he'd freaked Arthur out—

"So, you _ like _ it when I give you shit for not caring about your own safety?" Arthur asked. He didn't  _ look _ freaked out. He was smiling? The little smile again, but it was a smile.

"I like knowing that you care," Jaime said, dazed and stumbling a little over the words.

"Of course I care," Arthur said. He kissed Jaime again, brief and firm, then walked away to rummage through one of the cupboards. "Maybe we can take a first aid class together or something."

Jaime laughed. They would never do that, would they? But it was a nice thought.

"That's a weird idea for a date night," Tyrion said. "But  _ someone _ needs to teach that brother of mine some self-preservation." He gave Jaime a significant look.

While Arthur's back was turned, Tysha waved and caught Jaime's eye.  _ See? _ she mouthed to him. He shook his head. No, it wasn't what she thought it was.

"I knew I saw these earlier," Arthur said, turning around. He held a little plastic box, and when he came closer to hand it to Jaime— They were cocktail swords. "There are also a bunch of umbrellas, but I don't think those are what we're looking for."

Tyrion snorted. Jaime couldn't imagine Dad drinking anything with an umbrella, either.

It took a while for all of the pieces to bake and cool, and then they started assembly, carefully slotting the pieces into place and using little bits of frosting to stabilize it. Jaime made one of the gingerbread men stab the other in the face and, with a dab of icing on the dragon's spikes, carefully balanced them on top.

Tyrion slid a bowl of red icing to him across the countertop, and Tysha helped artfully place drips blood until she got a phone call and ducked out of the kitchen to take it.

"How's this look?" he asked Arthur, who was coming up behind him.

"Gruesome," Arthur said. "I found this for you, with the birthday candles." When was the last time there'd been a birthday cake in this house? "Don't light the house on fire."

He was holding out one of those long-necked candle lighters.

_ "Yes—" _ Jaime grabbed it.

Arthur directed him where to crouch and how to hold out the lighter so he'd be hidden in the picture, as if the gingerbread was a real dragon spouting a tiny flame.

"Okay, this is pretty cute," Arthur said, coming over to show him.

"It's a dragon, it's not supposed to be cute—" Jaime protested, getting up.

"It's a tiny dragon," Arthur said. "Tiny things are cute."

Jaime looked at it. He had a point, if you ignored all the blood.

"I'm sending this out," Arthur was saying. "Allyria's gonna be so jealous, and Rhaegar'll love it."

"Yeah," Jaime said, looking around for Tyrion. He'd disappeared sometime in the last couple of minutes— where to? He walked over to look into the living room, and—

There he was, clutching onto Tysha's hand. She was sitting on the couch with a thousand-yard stare.

"What's wrong?" Oh— should he have even said anything? Would she rather not have other people see this? But Arthur came over when he heard that, and— oh.

"Something's wrong with her scholarship—" Tyrion started—

"They've rescinded it," she cut in. "I didn't know they could do that— I haven't  _ done _ anything—"

No— but one of the chairmen was a Lannister. Tyrion met his eyes— he'd even said the other day that Dad wouldn't let this go.

"I'm going to talk to Dad tonight," Tyrion said, but Jaime knew that would be useless.

"No— You know he won't listen to you." Jaime felt like the floor was slowly spiraling away from his feet, leaving him hanging there like a runaway balloon stuck in a tree. "I'll talk to him."

* * *

 

Dad got home later than usual that evening. When they heard the garage door open, Jaime and Arthur both immediately looked up from their phones, and Jaime listened for the tap of Dad's footsteps as he came into the house. When he was this late, he usually ate before he came home, and— yes, that was Dad going to put his things down in his home office.

"Good luck," Arthur whispered as Jaime slipped out the bedroom door.

Jaime closed the office door behind him. Dad was setting up his laptop again, probably to check on a couple last things for the evening, but he'd looked up when Jaime entered the room.

"Did you have anything to do with this?" Jaime asked in a rush.

Dad turned his attention back to the computer screen. Swift keystrokes entered a password. "Which  _ this _ are you talking about?" he asked.

"Tysha," Jaime said.

"Oh, that," he said impassively. "Yes."

"Why? She's smart, she works hard, she doesn't deserve this—"

"She's getting above herself," Dad answered. "She'd be smarter to stay out of things that aren't her place— including this family."

"What, you think she's not good enough for Tyrion?" Jaime demanded. "Don't pretend you give a shit about what's good for him—"

Dad cut him off. "She's not good enough for a Lannister. Tyrion had no business bringing her back to this house— he's the one who did this to her." His eyes left the computer screen to look at Jaime, cold. "You had no business bringing your—  _ him _ back here, either."

"You can say the word  _ boyfriend _ , it won't kill you," Jaime snapped, but his insides were starting to turn to ice—

Dad didn't answer. He let the silence stretch until Jaime couldn't hold it in anymore—

"What are you going to do to him? You'd better not—"

"How would you stop me? But no— it's not what I'll do to him, it's what he'll do to you, if you don't end this."

What? "The fuck does that mean?"

"Do you think he's serious about you? He's Dornish. You think he'll stay faithful? If he ever has been."

"I love him," Jaime said.  _ Fuck _ . That had just come out. "We love each other."

"Does he? You're just a distraction. He'll leave as soon as his attention wanes."

"That's not true."

But it was. After this week, it would end. Jaime shut his eyes. All of this would go away. When he opened them again, Dad was watching.

"Rhaegar Targaryen," he said.

"What?"

"Rhaegar Targaryen. They've lived together for years—"

"I  _ know _ that—"

"I knew his name sounded familiar," Dad said. His voice was like stone— unyielding, impenetrable. The cold fingers of dread grasped Jaime's heart. "Aerys mentioned him years ago. The man his son brought home. Do you really think they've stopped fucking just because he's been toying with you?"

_ What? _ "I— I knew about that." He hadn't fucking known about that. "It's not like that anymore."

"You think you can change him? You think you've captured his heart?" Dad didn't sneer. That had never been necessary to make his derision known.

"I don't need to change him," Jaime said. But— If Arthur  _ had _ been with Rhaegar, there was no way he'd ever be interested in Jaime. They couldn't be more different. "He's not like that. He's serious about this."

Rhaegar was serious, too—  _ gravitas _ was a word Jaime'd learned for his SATs. There was something compelling about him, something that drew people, drew devotion— charming and engaging in bursts, confident, but also mysterious. And he was so fucking contemplative _ — smart, _ that it wafted off of him like strong cologne.

And Rhaegar was whole, and handsome in a way so opposite to Jaime. Valyrian-featured, looking as if he'd stepped down from an etching of a dragonlord. He looked like he was the prophesied messiah reborn.

_ Have you ever been way more into someone than they were into you? _ Arthur had asked yesterday.

If Rhaegar was who he wanted— Jaime wasn't even a shade of a substitute. He was something at the opposite end of the universe.

"And you know that how?" Dad asked. "You can't be spending every night together."

They definitely weren't.

"He wouldn't cheat— He's not a fucking Dornish stereotype. That's so full of shit. He's not like that. He's never been like that."

"I've warned you. Don't come running back here when he hurts you— if you think anything else will happen, you're a fool." He raised an eyebrow, but it was a judgmental eyebrow. "I can't believe I ever thought you would be my heir."

Jaime ignored that last bit, even though it was like an icicle stabbing its way into the empty cavity of his chest. "Bullshit."

Dad didn't say anything. He didn't have to. He went back to his work, and Jaime just stood there like a fucking idiot, wanting to make him take it all back. But he didn't have words. He never had words.

"You want to help the girl?" Dad asked, eventually. Jaime didn't answer. This was a trap, it had to be— "You can help her."

He was trying to draw the word out, and it worked. "What?" Jaime asked.

"If she gets away from our family and stays away, I'll undo it. She'll have a future again. You can give that to her— or you can take it away. It's your choice. All you have to do is make it so she'll never see him again. Make Tyrion see her for what she is— grasping, using him to claw her way up to places she doesn't belong."

"She loves him. That's fucking obvious," Jaime said. She didn't care what Tyrion looked like. She wanted to protect him— she wanted him to have better than this.

"Who could love something like him?" He said it completely stoically, as if he hadn't just said—  _ that _ .

_ "Fuck you," _ Jaime snapped, and slammed his way out of the office— he wanted nothing more than to be away from it, but he didn't run.  _ Lannisters _ didn't run away from their problems. He stalked down the hall and into his room, slamming the door— Arthur looked up from his phone.

"It was him," Jaime confirmed. "Fuck everything about this."

"Okay. That's shit." Arthur's eyes followed Jaime as he paced around the room. "They need to know, then."

"They know already. It's not exactly subtle," Jaime said. He growled and threw himself down on the bed, squeezing the life out of the pillow that found its way into his hands. "Dad says he'll fix it if they break up. He wants me to make that happen."

"They definitely need to know that," Arthur said.

"What good will it do?"

Arthur sighed. "We're faking a relationship. They can fake a breakup, if that's the way they want to do it. Or figure something else out."

That was true. Very true. Jaime curled around the pillow.  _ Fake. _

The bed shifted as Arthur came to sit next to him. "We need to tell them. They need to make their own decision, and they need all of the information to do that."

Jaime exhaled long, emptying out his lungs. "Yeah," he said. "You're right."

* * *

 

"Absolutely not," Tysha said. "I'm not letting him win."

"He already has," Tyrion said darkly. "What can we do?"

"Lots of things—" Tysha started out strong, but then she sighed. "Worst case scenario, I've already sent out all my college applications. I can come up with an excuse if they ask why I transferred schools. But there are other things I can do. I've done web design work for some local businesses before— I can sell my car."

"There's got to be an appeals process somewhere," Arthur pointed out. "There may be Lannister on the board, but there are others, too."

"It might be safer to let him think that he's won, though," Tyrion said quietly.

She was silent, too, a moment. "Let's try it my way first. If it doesn't work, we can pretend to break up." She huffed. Her anger was quiet, but strong. "I hate the way he treats you. I hate that he thinks he can get away with this."

He could get away with this, though, and he probably would.

Jaime still felt all tight and bunched up inside when they left Tyrion and Tysha on their own. Arthur slowly looked him over.

"Want to go for a run?" he suggested.

That sounded like a great idea.

When they got back, Jaime's head was floaty the way it usually was whenever he ran himself into the ground to avoid thinking about things. But as they got further into the house his mind started to flit back to Tyrion and Tysha and Rhaegar Targaryen. It cut through that gentle haze and started to bring him back down to earth. This was all shit he'd have to deal with. Not yet, though.

Jaime took a long shower, in which he put a token amount of effort into not thinking about Arthur showering in the other bathroom down the hall, then said  _ fuck it _ and spent a long while imagining Arthur joining him— strong hands roaming over wet skin, water droplets beading in Arthur's dark hair and eyelashes, being wrapped up in the heat of Arthur's body and the heat of the water all at once.

He didn't want Jaime, but just for a moment, he could pretend.

A little more of the tension left him once he was done.

Arthur was already back in the room, wearing more layers than Jaime thought was necessary.

"Any better?" he asked.

"A little," Jaime said.

He sat next to Arthur on the bed. Arthur touched his arm, hesitantly— "Are you still…?" His hands swept up to Jaime's shoulders and kneaded the muscle there. Jaime's eyes fluttered shut and he rolled his shoulders back into Arthur's hands— this was— touching him was only going to make this more difficult when it ended, but there were some things Jaime had never been able to deny himself. He heard Arthur's breath of laughter. "Lie down," Arthur said, and tugged at the hem of Jaime's T-shirt. "On or off?"

It was only a moment to shed the shirt and sprawl over the bed, and then Arthur's palms were rubbing up his back, covering and warming every inch of skin. Jaime let out a deep breath as Arthur's hands firmly pressed down into him, emptying his lungs, then filling them again as Arthur's fingers climbed up again, at either side of Jaime's spine.

Holy  _ shit _ . Jaime was so glad he'd taken the shirt off— This wasn't a way anyone had touched him before. He didn't want this to stop. He didn't want this to stop  _ ever _ . He took a deep breath, basking the feel of it. More of the tension was unwinding, his body was relaxing into putty in Arthur's hand. He was  _ good _ at this, and—

_ —don't think about Rhaegar Targaryen.  _ Don't think about Arthur learning this on Rhaegar's body.

He exhaled again, deflating.

Arthur combed through Jaime's hair, and it took a lot of willpower to not press up into his hand like a needy cat— "Everything okay?"

Did Jaime really need to say this? Or would it just be better to let it lie? He took another breath. "Dad said some shit about you, too."

"I figured there was something else," Arthur said, his tone carefully light.

"Just racist bullshit," Jaime said. "I don't want to repeat it."

"You don't have to. I can fill in the blanks," Arthur said. His hands touched Jaime's back again— slightly damp from their detour in his hair.

He shivered. "I told him it was a load of shit."

"Thank you— really. It means a lot to me that you would do that," he said, squeezing Jaime's shoulder.

_ You mean a lot to me _ , he didn't say. "You shouldn't have to deal with it," he said instead.

Arthur's hands started up again, fingertips firmly pressing down the back of Jaime's neck before separating off to massage into his shoulders some more. "Thank you," he said again, so quietly that Jaime almost didn't hear it.

Jaime pretended he hadn't heard it. It wasn't something he should really be  _ thanked _ for. He rotated his neck, stretched his shoulders under Arthur's hands, and let the moment lapse into silence. But the more he let his mind wander, the more he couldn't help wondering—

"This is none of my business, but—" he cringed a little. "What is it, between you and Rhaegar?"

Arthur exhaled slowly, and his hands stilled on Jaime's back. "We're really good friends— since high school," he said, and paused for a long moment. "We used to be— well, more intimate than that. It didn't work out, we didn't want the same things. That was years ago."

Hearing that confirmation was really, really weird. He couldn't — didn't want to — imagine Arthur with Rhaegar Targaryen. "It's not... weird or anything?" They still  _ lived _ together.

"For a while, it was. But it was a long time ago. I don't think of him like that anymore." His hands twitched against Jaime's back. "There's  _ nothing _ there. It's just— when someone's important, I can't not make the effort. To understand. Even if it's awkward. We got past it—" But then he rushed to say— "Oh— if this is— if you're worried this is going to be weird later— if this is already weird for you— I'm sorry. I'll back off, we'll go back to normal. I'm not gonna be pushy or anything if you don't—"

"No— I'm not worried about that."

Arthur drew a breath, but it was kind of— shaky. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable— that's never—"

"I know. You're not." Jaime stretched, and Arthur noticed that his hands were still on Jaime's back. He took them away.

Yeah. That had to happen. Jaime squirmed back into his shirt, trying not to feel too disappointed.

"Are we okay?" Arthur asked in the dark. "Are you okay?"

"We're fine—" Jaime said. "And I'm getting there."

"Tell me what you need," Arthur said. "Anything I can give— I mean that."

Jaime reached for him and settled in his arms, against his chest. Arthur's skin was starting to warm up, and Jaime could feel the beat of his heart, the little subtle movements as he got comfortable in bed. Jaime matched the rhythm of his breath to Arthur's.

This wasn't real, but tonight he would pretend.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never actually done gingerbread, I'm basing everything about structural integrity off of what I've seen on the Great British Baking Show. If you haven't seen it, look up Luis and his George vs the dragon cookie (sorry, biscuit) structure — that shit is inspirational.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone, you're fantastic! I'm really shit at replying individually, but I hope you know you really make my day :)


	5. Mother

There was a knock at the door early, and Jaime woke to find himself encircled in Arthur's arms, his face pressed against Arthur's chest, feeling his slow heartbeat and even breathing. Jaime wanted to just close his eyes and enjoy the moment, but no— Arthur had only wanted to be comforting last night. If he woke up with Jaime in his arms, it would only be awkward.

But Jaime might only have this fleeting moment—

Another knock at the door, and Tyrion's voice came through. "We should get going— It's not going to be pleasant around here as soon as Dad gets up."

Jaime carefully extricated himself from Arthur's arms and rolled over, rubbing at his eyes. They didn't want to stay open. "It's still dark outside," he complained.

"You know how early Dad gets up," was Tyrion's answer.

"Fine."

Arthur was still out cold next to him. It took quite a bit of shaking before his eyes cracked open.

"Why?" he asked, and it was so pathetic that Jaime had to swallow the laugh that cut through his dark mood.

"Avoiding Dad," he explained. "It's about to be seriously unpleasant around here."

Arthur groaned, got out of bed, and walked straight into the wall. "Goddammit."

Jaime couldn't hold in the laugh that time.

"You're a dick," Arthur said, but it was difficult to take seriously because it faded into a huge yawn.

"Love you too," Jaime snickered, then froze.  _ Fuck _ . Did he really just say that?

Arthur turned his back, slowly sifting through his clothes. "You shouldn’t joke like that," he said.

It wasn't as much of a joke as it probably should've been, but still. Jaime should have thought —obviously Arthur wouldn't be receptive. Not even if it was a joke. "I'm sorry," he said.

Arthur had stopped moving, but he didn't turn. "Don't— you have nothing to be sorry for," he said, with a sigh. "What are we doing today?"

The idea had popped into Jaime's head last night as he was falling asleep, but he hadn't put a lot of thought into that. "Tyrion and Tysha are going down to Lannisport to spend the day with her family," he said. "But I wanted to—" it felt like the right thing to do— "I wanted to visit Mom."

He hadn't been to her grave in years— he tried not to think about it, even. But today it felt like he should. It was the Mother's Day, for one, and being anywhere near Dad was going to be miserable today.

And Jaime wanted to imagine what it would be like to have a parent who wouldn't let him down so heavily.

"Then we'll do that," Arthur said, deciding on a shirt.

It was a nice one, almost like he was getting dressed up for dinner again. "You don't have to—" Jaime started, but stopped when he saw the gravity on Arthur's face.

"It's respectful," he said. "It's your mother."

So Jaime dug out a nice shirt too, and the buttons went a little faster this time.

Arthur was mostly ready, but kind of standing there spacing out while Jaime shrugged on his coat. He looked neat and put together, even though his face still looked rumpled, almost. His cheek still a little creased from the pillow. As much as Jaime liked seeing Arthur's neck, he knew he was going to be  _ so _ cold, and it would be nice to see a bit of color on him, too.

He searched through his drawers until he found it — mom's scarf, one of the few things any of them had kept out of storage. Cersei wore some of her jewelry sometimes, but Dad wasn't much for sentimentality. As for Jaime— it felt weird to look at her things and not remember what she had looked like wearing them.

The fabric was soft in his hands. Wool, but the nice kind of wool. Thin, but tightly woven. Red. Warm if you wrapped it around a few times.

"It gets really windy up at the top of the Rock," he told Arthur, flipping the scarf around his neck, and if he brushed against Arthur's face while he wrapped it, that was hardly his fault. "Don't want you to freeze."

Arthur blinked owlishly, wrapped up to his nose in it. "Thanks," he said, patting it down so his face was uncovered, but Jaime would bet money it'd be up over his face again once they spent a little time outside.

"It was Mom's," Jaime told him, for some reason.

"Thank you," Arthur said again, touching the cuff of Jaime's coat for a moment before he slipped his gloves on. "It's really special."

"Yeah," Jaime said. It was.

Tysha and Tyrion let them out of the car in Casterly Town on their way back down to Lannisport. Casterly was never the most lively of towns, but today thick fog off the ocean blanketed the streets. Nothing moved, or at least nothing they could see.

Jaime ushered Arthur into a Starbucks before he could start shivering. The town could be cute sometimes, as far as small towns went anyway, and the view of the sunrise over the mountains was always pretty. Right now, there was no point. They couldn't see more than 20 feet ahead. The fog would probably burn off later in the morning, but the damp chill would stay. Not the greatest day to have Arthur outside, but they could buy a big hot chocolate or something before they left, and that would keep him on this side of freezing.

The tiny tabletops had them practically sitting on top of each other again, not that Arthur looked like he'd noticed. He was kind of spacing out still, looking out the window, but the coffee was starting to make him look— not  _ perky _ , exactly, but a little less like a wight.

"What are we— what exactly?" he asked, stumbling over the words, when he'd pulled himself together a little.

_ What are we? _ That was a good question, but not the one Arthur meant. "Waiting for things to open up," Jaime explained. Most places would probably be closed today, but if he remembered correctly, the drugstore down the street was run by a Northern couple. "I wanted to get something before we go to the cemetery. She never liked cut flowers—" or so Aunt Genna said— "but I thought— there was some candy she liked, and we could leave that for her."

"Sounds good," Arthur said, yawning. "I'm sorry— I'm terrible when I'm tired. Trying to get my shit together. We can go walk around if you want," he said into the space between them.

"It's still cold— we can wait a little," Jaime offered, but he really did want to get up and move around—

"You're about to jitter out of your chair," Arthur said, and, well. Maybe he had a point.

But Jaime did insist on getting Arthur something else hot to drink before they left.

The convenience store had the right candies, and the couple was mostly as Jaime remembered them — perhaps a little more grey, was all — and then he and Arthur were on their way to the cemetery, walking through the silent, foggy streets.

Cemeteries were always a little unsettling, but the thick fog left it eerier even than that. Jaime knew how to find the section which held all of the Lannisters, going back centuries, but couldn't remember which row Mom was in. So they wandered through the lines of headstones and statues, some ornate and crumbling, relics of the fashions of eras past; some sleek modern lines and etchings. Some of the names familiar, famous in their family lore; some unknown to him.

Finally, he found it.  _ Joanna Lannister _ . It didn't say much besides her name and the dates — Dad wouldn't have put  _ beloved wife and mother _ or anything, and Jaime didn't know that the essence of a person could be trapped in so few words, anyway — but built to last. Gilded letters carved into granite. He knelt to clear away the dead leaves from the base of the stone. Arthur came close, as if to help, but—

"I've got this," Jaime said, and he backed away.

When it was cleared, Jaime stacked the candies at the base, forcing himself to go slowly, and made a little pyramid. Neat. That much, at least, he could do.

And then... He wasn't quite sure what. He'd wanted to come here, but when faced with it, he was at a loss. Sitting back on his heels, Jaime studied the stone— the smoothness of it, the dapples in color.

"No pressure," Arthur said quietly, "but if you want to talk about anything, I'm here to listen. Or if you want to be alone for a while, I can go take a walk."

"No, you're fine," Jaime said, but he didn't really want to talk, either. He slowly got to his feet.

But Arthur nodded and wrapped the scarf higher around his face — ha, Jaime  _ knew  _ it — and wandered off just a little bit, reading the engravings on some of the nearby stones. He didn't go far— a particularly gaudy statue of a roaring lion stood in the next row, and that captured his attention.

What were you supposed to do, visiting a grave? A dramatic monologue like in the movies, asking  _ why _ or going over memories? Was he supposed to cry? Was he supposed to pray? Was there any point? Jaime wasn't sure what he believed. They had never been religious. Was her spirit still out there watching over him — or was life, once it was snuffed out, just  _ gone? _

But even if there was a heaven — or seven of them — he was never going to see her again. And if she was watching, she'd be so disappointed in them. In all of them.

But here he was, standing before a block of stone.

"I was really young when she died." The memories Jaime had were more impressions than anything, vague images he wasn't entirely certain were true memories. Maybe they were just invented from seeing pictures of her or hearing his aunts and uncles talk about her. Dad never spoke of her. People said sometimes that he had been different, before Mom died, but Jaime didn't remember that either. "She liked to make things, I think. We found a bunch of her old stuff once, and she was good at it. Pottery, sketchbooks." Some metalwork that might have been hers too, but Mom  _ welding _ didn't really fit in with what people said about her.

He still wasn't sure where she found the time for any of it — she had been a lawyer, and Dad's partner in everything. Sure, he had thrown himself deeper into his work after she was gone, but Jaime didn't think either of them had ever been slack.

Then again, people made time for their hobbies, he supposed. Which of Dad's colleagues was the one who flew off to Sothoryos every few months to hunt basilisks with a knife…?

"So that's where you get it from," Arthur said. He'd come back to Jaime's side, and there was a smile on his face that was entirely too soft. A little bittersweet.

"Get what from?"

"You were good with the gingerbread yesterday." Arthur shrugged. "And I've always thought making things ties into being good at physical things, more generally."

Physical things? Maybe, like, two years ago. "I don't see how it relates," he said. "Anyway, I'm really not anything like her."

Arthur's mouth twisted as he looked Jaime over, and Jaime wondered what he wasn't saying.

"What was she like, then?" he asked.

That was the big question, wasn't it?

"I think she laughed a lot." Jaime couldn't remember the sound of it, but he remembered feeling inflated with warm pride whenever he'd made her laugh. "Strict, but kind about it." Kinder than Dad, anyway. "Patient. I don't remember her getting mad. She used to read to us a lot. Smart— everyone says she and Dad were well-matched. I don't know— I don't really remember."

"I think you're more like her than you think."

Jaime just shook his head.

"You're way harder on yourself than you have any reason to be," Arthur said. "I hope, someday, you'll see all the good." He must have seen the look on Jaime's face— "You  _ are _ kind. Impatient sometimes. Prickly," he said. Jaime snorted— that was an understatement— "Like a cactus. The kind that has water inside in the middle of the desert, but not one of the ones that makes you hallucinate— okay, that metaphor got away from me. But I can tell that you give a shit. You want the world to be  _ right _ , and it's grating that it's not. A lot of people don't— don't even see anything outside of what's immediate to them." Jaime looked away. This was— Arthur wasn't entirely wrong, but he  _ was _ being too charitable. It wasn't like Jaime had ever done anything worthwhile _. Really _ worthwhile. "And you've been a very good fake boyfriend."

That was a stab to the gut. He knew Arthur meant well, but— he gave a shaky smile. This was fake. Once they got back to King's Landing, things would go back to the way they used to be — friends, but none of this. Casual affection, little smiles, and how fucking supportive Arthur was being. Jaime didn't think he'd ever had this kind of conversation with anyone. This many compliments, and that Arthur somehow thought he was a good person— it was disconcerting.

"Do you want to go see some other places she liked?" he asked, to change the subject.

"Yeah— let's do that."

He rested his hand on the stone for a moment before they left.

* * *

 

Over lunch — the Braavosi place that had always been Mom's favorite — Jaime wondered, "Do you ever get the chance to, you know. Go visit your folks?" Or their graves, anyway.

Arthur had been chewing— it was a moment before he answered. "I haven't been back in years, now. It's something I wish I could do." He blew out a sigh. "I try to do little things when I can— superstitions, I guess, but there's something comforting about tradition. To me, anyway. Lighting candles, glasses of wine on the windowsill. Stuff like that."

"I haven’t heard the wine thing before," Jaime said. There was a lot of weird stuff that came over with the Rhoynar, back in ancient times, and became part of Dornish tradition. At least, that was how Jaime understood it, but it had always seemed so convoluted to him.

"Dornish thing. It's supposed to welcome their spirits back, when they come visiting. Then there's other stuff you're supposed to do to keep the evil spirits out, but that's just too finicky for me."

"So, you might be possessed by a demon right now, is what you're telling me?"

Arthur looked surprised for just a second before he laughed. Jaime loved making that happen. "Yeah— keep me away from water, or I might try to drown you."

But then the moment passed, and he got quiet again. Jaime watched. He'd been a little off all day — at first, Jaime thought it was just tiredness, but as the day went on and his mood didn't lift…

"Is something wrong?" Jaime asked.

He'd caught Arthur in the middle of a bite again, but he just shook his head. "Nothing's wrong," he said.

There  _ was _ something wrong, though. Jaime had twenty-odd years of judging and dancing around Dad's moods. The same for Cersei too, he supposed, though he used to be able to calm her — he'd been the only one who could. The two of them against the world — but that was wrong, wasn't it? A lot of the time, it had felt like it was just the two of them, but it hadn't been. Not really. There had always been other people, only Jaime hadn't wanted to get close. None of them had ever seemed worth it, in his mind. Was it fear of being disappointed, or fear of being disappointing?

"Arthur— seriously, what's wrong?"

He bit his lip, and Jaime could see in his eyes that he was thinking— he shook his head again. "I came out here to be helpful— I know it's been a shit week for you. You don't need to deal with my issues, too."

"You think I can't deal with it?" That came out more combative than he had really intended. Issues? Plural?

Arthur have him a grim look. "Most of it's my own damn fault and you shouldn't  _ have _ to deal with that. There's just a lot going on in my head right now, I don't have it all figured out yet, and I don't want to put it on you."

"You can," Jaime said. Should he say it? "Do you have any idea how much you've helped me just by being here?" Arthur's mouth tightened. "Can you let me try to do the same?"

Arthur exhaled, long and slow, and turned to the window, eyes sort of unfocused. For a moment, then another— The tension that had stiffened out his shoulders was leaving him, the hardness in his face slipping away. What was he thinking of? Jaime pressed his leg against Arthur's under the table, and his attention came back.

His eyes flicked over Jaime's face. "You're not used to it, are you?" Arthur asked. His face had gentled, but his eyes were sad. "Touch, I mean."

No, Jaime wasn't used to it— Arthur could tell?

"My dad's not exactly an affectionate person," Jaime said. He and Tyrion hadn't hugged since they were kids, probably, and Cersei— they'd had to hide everything. Rushed moments were all they'd ever had. Besides, it had been almost two years since...

"I'm sorry you haven't had that," Arthur said. His face was... Jaime didn't know what his face was. "You deserve more."

"What— what do you mean by more?"

"I don't want to speak badly of your family— they're still family. But they're not good to you." He had a slight smile, but it wasn't a happy thing. A curve to his lips, and little more. "You'll find it— love that builds, not breaks."

That— Did Arthur want to be that person? Or was he pulling away? Jaime studied him— Tysha had said to pay attention to more than just his words. He was— there was space.

Had Arthur reached out today? No— he hadn't. He usually did.

Jaime didn't know what to say. What to do.

"I'm sorry— that was too much," Arthur said. He looked out the window again.

"Sorry for what?" Jaime asked. "Giving a shit about me?"

"I mean — this wasn't exactly what I expected, I misread some things, and I'm sorry."

Jaime searched his face, and didn't find anything illuminating there.  _ What _ had he expected? "I still don't know what you think you need to be sorry for."

"Good," he said, and sighed.

* * *

 

It was clear and cold by the time they left for the gardens of the old castle. There wasn't a lot on top of the Rock — old guard towers and fortifications along the road up, and maybe there had once been stables or something, but the gardens were what had been maintained, even after all these years. A botanical garden now, technically — parts of it manicured to perfection, other corners devoted to greenhouses and exhibits housing plants from around the world.

Jaime didn't really remember coming here as a kid — it didn't seem like the kind of thing that would have held his attention when he was younger. But Mom's sketchbooks had a lot of plants in them — diverse plants — and he couldn't think where else she would have seen them. Most of her sketches were messy, capturing impressions and shapes more than detail, but there were some she paid more attention to. The ones that had him and Cersei in them, playing in the gardens. Or other people sometimes, especially the ones who were  _ characters _ , something about them coming across as more than simple lines, jumping forth from the page.

She didn't like drawing structures, straight lines, he thought. He'd never once seen a building drawn by her hand— everything was alive, in motion.

Maybe he should track them down, show some to Arthur. Would he like that? He'd seemed curious about her earlier. Would he see something of Jaime in the way she drew, too?

He'd once wanted desperately to be like Dad — sometimes he still did. But he couldn't be. Aunt Genna had said as much, once — that he was more like his uncles than anything. She hadn't said anything about Mom, and now Jaime wondered.  _ Were _ there bits of her in him, too? She had been good, he thought — were there pieces of her goodness mixed in with whatever else had left him dark and torn and dirty?

"She used to come here to draw," he told Arthur. "There was one of that fountain — me and Cersei splashing each other." The movement of the water— Cersei's focus, his smile.

"That sounds really sweet." They walked over to it together. A paper-thin layer of ice sat upon the water's surface, except for the rings where the water cascaded down. It wasn't completely even, and a few air bubbles were trapped beneath, leaving the coins along the bottom a little distorted in this light. Arthur gently brushed the surface with gloved fingers. The ice was fragile enough to break at his touch, and his fingertips just barely dipped into the water before he drew back.

"I've never seen anything like this," he said, and Jaime supposed that must be right. King's Landing, low along the bay, hadn't quite sunk into freezing temperatures yet. Here, in the mountains, it was getting there at night, though snow was probably still a while off.

"Have you ever seen snow?" he asked.

"No," Arthur said. "It'll be my first winter out of Dorne."

"I want to see you the first time it snows," Jaime said. Was that too much? But he wondered— would Arthur get excited like a kid at the first snowfall? Last week he would have said  _ hell no _ , but today he wasn't sure. A softer side to Arthur had started to show itself over the past few days — easy smiles, casual touch. Affection given generously. The undertone of Jaime's admiration morphing from aspiration to desire. Friendship — there was a tiny part of Jaime that had wondered if it was growing into something deeper, but no, that was only in Jaime's heart.

When he woke up this morning, that little part of Jaime had wondered — was this entirely unrequited? Arthur had been touching him  _ so _ much — much more than was necessary for their act. He'd reached out to him in private a couple of times, when no one was there to see, he now realized. He'd let Jaime sleep in his arms. He was adamant that Jaime was  _ good _ . That he deserved better. That someday he'd have better.

But today had been different. What was going on in his head?

"I'll snapchat you," Arthur promised.

Jaime wanted to  _ see  _ it, but still. Better than nothing.

"Do you mind if I ask what happened to her?" Arthur asked. "You don't have to say."

"It was a difficult birth, when Tyrion was born," he said.

"Oh— I'm sorry. I didn't know that still happened."

It didn't really, or not often. From what Jaime had pieced together, it had been a lot of blood, and fast— he hadn't really gone looking further than that.

"Just unlucky, I guess," Jaime said. "Dad blames Tyrion for it. He's always made that clear. I don't know if he'll say anything, since you guys are all here, or if he disapproves so much that he won't give a shit."

"That's fucked up," Arthur said. "That's not  _ Tyrion's _ fault. It's not anyone's fault."

_ Try telling Dad that _ , he didn't say. "I know."

"I've been trying to tell myself that he means well. That he wants the best for you, just with a really rigid idea of what's best— but stuff like this is making that difficult."

"I know," Jaime said again.

Arthur sighed. "He just— he doesn't see you for who you are. You all deserve better."

Jaime didn't know what to say, so he took Arthur's hand and squeezed it — Arthur let him — and they explored the rest of the gardens together, side by side. He didn't want to let go, but he knew he'd have to eventually. It was really gonna suck next week, when he wouldn't have the excuse to do this anymore.

* * *

 

They waited in a coffee shop again when Tyrion texted that they were on their way back up. Inside, it was cramped enough that Jaime could have tucked himself against Arthur's side, or at least let their legs touch again, but he didn't know if that would be welcome. He didn't think so — not today.

Perhaps it was better that he figured all this out now, before hope really had a chance to take root.

"Sorry today was kinda depressing," he said.

Arthur shook his head. "No— I'm glad I could be here. Thank you for trusting me with this."

_ Trusting him _ . Was this about trust? He looked over at Arthur, caught his eyes for a moment. Yeah, he trusted Arthur— it was impossible not to. To let him see the soft parts of him, the things that still hurt when he slowed down enough to think about it. To be vulnerable.

But that wouldn't be returned — vulnerability just wasn't Arthur.

He was thinking— tightness in his brows, lips parting as if he wanted to speak. "I'm sorry I've been weird today," Arthur said. "I'm glad to be here with you — making new memories. You're really important to me, you know? But there are some things I need to figure out on my own."

"Okay," Jaime said. He could deal with it, but he wasn't  _ happy _ that Arthur still wouldn't say anything— not when Jaime had been a fucking wreck all week so far.

He looked like he was about to speak again. "I'm worried about Ashara," was what he decided to say. "Tomorrow it'll be three years since the big fight happened, and it was hardest on her."

"What exactly happened?" Would he actually answer?

Arthur thought again. He wasn't at all sure about his words. "Have I ever actually told you what my family does? Did?"

Jaime shook his head. Arthur had never offered a lot about his own life— was he really private, or was it because Jaime had never asked before? They tended to talk about more present things, but still Arthur had drawn more out of Jaime than he was able to do in return.

"Aeronautics," he said. "My parents wanted all of us to follow in their footsteps, but my brother was the only one who did. After they died, he had some things to say about loyalty. And ambition. And wasted talent. Still, it wasn't until he started on Ashara—" He stopped talking for a moment. Jaime reached out over the table to take his hand— he didn't meet Jaime's touch, but he didn't move away. "Anyway, Ashara spent like three months flying routes in Essos and not talking to any of us. She still doesn't really like being around holiday stuff. I worry."

"I'm sure she'll be fine," Jaime said. She'd seemed fairly down to earth, from the brief video call he'd witnessed. "She's dating someone, isn't she? She can talk to him—"

"If she's told him. She's not always the most forthcoming— she doesn't want anyone to worry."

"Why does that sound familiar?" Jaime asked dryly.

"It's not the same— this is a whole different thing."

"You don't have to carry everything on your own," Jaime told him.

Arthur paused. "Not everything, no— I know that. But some things."

That wasn't exactly what Jaime wanted, but it was more than he expected. "Okay—" Jaime could do that. He could do this. "We're okay?"

"Yeah, of course." The smile was a little more real, this time.

When they were back home after a quiet drive, Jaime couldn't help worrying about Tysha — they were quiet. Everyone was quiet, tiptoeing around each other all evening, and not really talking.

Jaime should have tried harder, when he was talking to Dad last night— he should've kept his temper, he should've found better words. If he was more like Dad — more like any of them, really, anyone who wasn't him — maybe he could have changed something. Maybe he could have fixed it.

He sat next to Arthur on the couch, not touching. Something was on the TV, but no one was really paying attention to it — Tyrion and Tysha busy together at a laptop, Robert drinking, Cersei watching all of them. Arthur staring out the window again, out over the water.

When the garage door opened again, heralding Dad's return, they all scattered. Then when the coast was clear again and Jaime was slipping back to his room from brushing his teeth, he almost ran into Cersei in the hallway. Just standing there, quietly watching him.

"What?" he asked irritably.

She paused before she spoke, and he didn't like the speculative look in her eye. "He barely said a word to you today," she said.

"Who?" Jaime asked. "None of us were saying anything to each other." But he knew who she meant, and he knew he wouldn't fool her by playing dumb.

"It's not as perfect as you'd like us to believe, is it?" Cersei asked.

Jaime didn't answer, only tried to walk past— she stepped in front of him again.

"He'll never understand you like I do," she said. She touched his chest, ran her hand down. Was it a shiver or a shudder starting in his core? "He'll never love you like I do— no one will. No one  _ can _ . Anyone else will only ever be a pale imitation of this— what we have." He tried to dodge around her again, but she didn't let him. "We're the same, you and I. We're part of each other. We always have been. You're not complete without me— you'll see."

"That's not true," Jaime said. "I've been fine without you—" that wasn't strictly true either, but he was getting there—

"Have you been?" she asked. The corners of her mouth tightened into a smirk. "You jumped straight from my arms into his. You don't know how to be without me— when he leaves, you'll see."

"He won't leave," Jaime insisted. But he would, and then Jaime while be alone again, like he'd been— like he'd been for two years, almost.

"Won't he?"

When Jaime pushed past her this time, she let him go.

He took a deep breath. He would be okay. He wouldn't be  _ alone.  _ Even when things with Arthur went back to normal, he would still be around— he would still be a friend. A friend. He could accept that. He would have to.

But Arthur knew something was wrong as soon as Jaime walked into the room. "You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," Jaime grumbled, and balled himself up into bed. He felt Arthur move behind him and put a hand against his back.

Jaime unwound himself enough to look back, and Arthur wore a strange expression again. Sad? Not quite. Hesitant? Maybe— the hand on Jaime's back was light, and he hadn't moved.

Slowly, giving Arthur every chance to draw away, Jaime turned over and folded himself into Arthur's arms. His heart was pounding— one of their hearts was pounding.

"Cersei said some shit this time," Jaime muttered.

Arthur's fingers combed through his hair, leaving his scalp kind of tingly and pleasant. "I'm sorry," he said. "You used to be close, right?"

Yeah.  _ Close _ was a word. Jaime nodded. Arthur squeezed him tight for a moment, fingers still rubbing circles through Jaime's hair. He breathed in Arthur's scent — calming, all of it — and sleepily rubbed his face against Arthur's shoulder. Crap, that was a weird thing to do, but Arthur just palmed the back of his head and sighed.

Maybe it happened, or maybe he imagined it, but he thought he felt Arthur's lips on his forehead as he drifted off to sleep. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a tumblr: [peggycarterisacat](https://peggycarterisacat.tumblr.com/) for general fandom stuff, [peggycarterisacat-fic](https://peggycarterisacat-fic.tumblr.com/) for fic updates.


	6. Maiden

The bed was empty next to him, but the sheets were still warm from Arthur's body. Jaime stretched and curled up into the warm spot Arthur had left behind, burrowing under the covers like a small animal. It still smelled like him, even though that was probably a really creepy thing to notice.

Well, not too creepy, he told himself. He hadn't, like, made a shrine or started collecting toenail clippings or anything. Not creepy. Arthur just smelled really good. It was a completely innocent thing to notice.

The door opened and closed, and Arthur came in on quiet feet. He walked around the bed to check Jaime's face— "Morning," he said, seeing that Jaime was awake. His hair was still wet from the shower, and Jaime tried not to be too obvious about watching while he finished getting dressed. "I don't know if you want to do anything today..."

Jaime suppressed a groan and curled up tighter. Maiden's Day was for lovers. There was some kind of irony there, and Jaime had always wondered who exactly had decided that one. Tysha had said she'd think up plans for a double date — he hoped she'd forgotten. This was going to be awkward.

As the morning went on, it became obvious it wasn't shaping up to be a romantic day for anyone. Cersei and Robert had been sniping at each other as they left for the day, Tysha was on the couch furiously typing away, and Arthur was a little mesmerized in his phone. 

"Can you read this?" Tysha asked Tyrion. "Does it sound professional? Like, firm, I need answers, but not like I'm a crazy angry person?"

"You have a right to be angry," Tyrion said, but he leaned over to read it anyway.

"Yeah, but being angry doesn't make people take you seriously," she said. "Like, ok. Explaining the problem, expressing confusion and concern, asking about process. Implying that I know their process and they didn't fucking follow it."

"Don't just imply," Tyrion said. " _ Tell _ them they didn't follow process and they need to fix it."

"That's not too confrontational?" she asked.

"No," they all agreed.

She was going up against Dad, albeit indirectly. "Dad won't pull his punches," Jaime said. "You can't, either. You can't imply, you can't be soft. Be direct and make sure you can back up everything you say."

"There's documentation on this, right? The dismissal process?" Arthur asked.

She nodded. "I found a PDF on the school board's website."

"Literally highlight the relevant parts and send it back to them," he suggested. "Strictly facts— use their own words."

"And that won't look crazy?" she asked skeptically.

"If it does, it'll be in a way they can't ignore if they want to cover their own asses," Tyrion said.

She thought about it. "Okay," she nodded, and went back to typing. "Is this better?"

Tyrion looked over again. "Yes, that's perfect."

"Okay— sent," Tysha said, and set the laptop aside. "Nothing I can do until they say something." She stretched her hands.

"Now for a distraction—" Tyrion said.

"Oh yeah, I promised you guys a double date— I thought we could all cook dinner together or something? And on the drive back yesterday, I saw a sign—" She typed again, and turned the screen around. "You know that kids' science museum down in Lannisport? They're doing a couples' event this afternoon."

_ "The Science of Love _ ," Tyrion read aloud, and looked up at Jaime. "This should be illuminating."

Arthur looked apprehensive but agreed to it, and Jaime found himself nodding along, too.

Goddammit, Tysha.

They spent the morning flipping between romance movie marathons on TV, Jaime and Tyrion competing to find the most ridiculous romcom possible to keep Tysha's mind off of the email she'd sent off. As different scenes found their way across the screen, Jaime wondered what exactly Arthur had watched, preparing for this trip. He was too far away on the couch, not particularly paying attention to anything— so Jaime didn't ask.

When Tysha's phone rang, she grabbed it immediately. "I don't know the number..." she said. "They wouldn't get back to me already, right? It's been like three hours."

No one knew what to say, but Tyrion held her hand as she picked up. "Hello?" She listened a moment. "Oh! Hello ma'am—" she covered up the receiver and whispered to them,  _ "Ellyn Tarbeck?" _

_ Tarbeck _ sounded vaguely familiar, but Jaime couldn't quite place it. Tyrion started laughing — Tysha shushed him and went back to her call.

"Yes— yes," and other affirming noises for a few minutes — Tyrion was still snickering — "Oh— thank you? Thank you!" After she hung up, she looked dumbstruck for a moment. "She says she got them to put everything on hold until the next board meeting in two weeks, but I should be prepared to give a statement. She said she'd help me prepare, and, uh, this is a direct quote— 'dig up whatever those sons of bitches are hiding.'"

Tyrion laughed again. "Ellyn Tarbeck hates Dad's guts. She'll follow through."

"Who is she?" Jaime asked.

" _ Reyne _ is her maiden name," Tyrion said, and  _ that _ was a name Jaime definitely recognized. "She also used to be a Lannister, by marriage. There's a lot of bad blood there. I wouldn't be surprised if she's just been biding her time, waiting for a way to get back at him."

Helping Tysha keep a scholarship seemed petty in comparison to the environmental disaster Dad had manufactured to cripple the Reynes' political careers— but it might actually be the best way of getting under Dad's skin, if that was what Ellyn Tarbeck was going for.

"Then there's a chance this might work out?" Tysha asked, and there was a trace of a smile there that Jaime hadn't seen since she got the news.

"More than a chance," Tyrion said.

Tysha took a deep breath. "I really hope so," she said.

* * *

 

Jaime  _ had _ been here when he was younger. He remembered the first gallery, open, airy, and completely chaotic. Stuffed full of so many different things, all interactive. A frame that made gigantic bubbles, mirrors and lenses and prisms, clocks and gears and moving pieces. One of those things, with a row of swinging marbles, where only the two at the ends would bounce off the others— except huge, and hanging from the ceiling.

Drunk young couples — apparently this was a BYOB thing — running around like kids and playing with all of it.

There were other areas, too, or at least there had been when Jaime was small. Maybe, if he was remembering correctly. Microscopes and magnification. Music. In the back against the harbor, there was a big window sunk into the ground that the waves crashed over. On the roof— something to do with the wind, or the weather?

They meandered through some of the side exhibits — less hectic than the main gallery — and stopped in at a couple of them. One was all microscopes — or were they just zoomed cameras, or whatever — that compared different materials. You could spin the knobs on the wall to switch out the samples, and compare what they looked like on big screens. Colorful boards with big lettering explained the differences. Wool and cotton and synthetic fibers; sand and salt and sugar. There were some plants down at the other end, but there in the center was the big, free-standing one. You could put whatever you liked in the window and see it up on the screen. There was a guy over there now, making funny faces into it.

He and Arthur walked around the room quietly. Every so often, Arthur would spin one, if there weren't other people crowded around it, and he spent a long time looking at words put to paper. Streaks of graphite, carefully inked calligraphy, words laserjet-printed or stamped by a typewriter— the way the marks held to the fiber of the paper.

As they left the room, the center one was free, and Arthur pressed his hand to the window as he passed. The lines in his palm, the little ridges of his fingerprints. Jaime put his left hand on the window next to him— the same lines, textured skin. Then his right— smooth, unnaturally so. He turned away, and Arthur caught the right hand in his for just a moment.

They continued their circuit around the museum, looking into all of the different galleries, slowly, but not in any kind of depth. As if they were both trying to avoid the exhibit of the day —  _ The Science of Love — _ but eventually they found their way there, too.

It was kid-friendly and vague in places — mentions of hormones and chemicals released by "touch," yes — but interesting, in its own way.

"Kind of takes the magic out of it, doesn't it?" Jaime asked when he noticed Arthur watching him read.

Some things overly clinical, attraction boiled down to symmetry and ratios and pheromones, first impressions and body language. Other things twisting and contradictory — getting into psychology and personality and other things that couldn't be readily defined.

"Not really," Arthur said. "Anyone who tells you science has all the answers is lying to you. Everything is a simplification, especially when there are so many things interacting— the closer you look, the more complicated it gets. There comes a point where you have to decide how much error you can live with."

Jaime looked at him— really looked at him. "Are you okay?"

"What?"

"That was really dark. For you, I mean."

"I don't think that's dark—"

"Is that how you think about love?" Jaime asked, trying to keep his tone light, joking. "How much error you can live with?"

Arthur sighed. "My approach to love is that you can never really know what's going on in someone else's head."

What had  _ happened _ since the beginning of the week? What were the things he had said then? Love growing gradually, love being a part of you— it had seemed like every second thing he said was completely swoon-worthy, if Jaime was the swooning type, but it hadn't felt forced. Arthur saying those words— it had been natural, comfortable.

_ Something _ had changed, but Jaime couldn't pinpoint it.

Only one exhibit remained to be read, and they had enough time to look at it before they should go meet back up with Tyrion and Tysha. They wandered over on slow feet. It was about recognizing the signs of an abusive relationship, which was an important thing to know.

"Good to teach kids this stuff," he said to Arthur, who nodded absently as he read. "So they don't get stuck thinking any of it is normal—"

Then Jaime turned to read, too. The physical things were mostly obvious, but then—

_ Manipulation. Control. Criticism. Isolation. Pressure. Guilt. _

_ Jealousy. Anger. Mistrust. Codependence. _

_ Name-calling. Belittling. Love-bombing. Silent treatment. Cycling. _

_ If only I could be better— Maybe it's my fault— Too sensitive— Can't do anything right— _

_ Us against them— You need me— You are nothing without me— If I can't have you, no one will— _

His entire body had gone cold. There were pins and needles in his hands, even in the one that was gone. Everything was far away. There was no sound. The light was distorted, the shadows falling strangely. All of the people were only blurs of color.

He walked away. Away— anywhere but here.

Anywhere but in front of those fucking words.

"Jaime—" Arthur's voice came from miles away. Jaime didn't stop, couldn't stop. His feet carried him somewhere, he didn't know where—

Until Arthur touched his cheek, and he felt wind, and heard the wind whistling through— something. A full-bodied sound, deep. He looked around. They were on the roof. There was a sculpture up here that he sort of remembered— kind of flute-y. Built to make music when the wind was strong, and it was strong today.

"None of it's your fault," Arthur was saying. Both his hands cradled Jaime's face. "You didn't deserve it— you don't deserve it. You can have better— you deserve better." His face was upset, and it was strong— his eyes were wide with something. Something Jaime didn't know, or something he was afraid to try to name. "If you wanted it," he said, "I would spend the rest of my fucking life showing you—" but then his face immediately froze.

"You would what…?" Jaime asked slowly.

Arthur shut his eyes. "We should get you home."

He guided Jaime back down the stairs.

* * *

 

Tyrion and Tysha went ahead, giving them space, and Jaime paused, taking off his shoes. He caught Arthur's arm— he was standing there, very still, and taking deep, measured breaths.

"Can we talk?" Jaime asked. "Alone?"

Arthur let out a long breath and shut his eyes. "Yeah. I think that's for the best." He trailed after Jaime down the hall to his room, and as soon as the door was shut— "I'm so sorry. You didn't want— You don't need to deal with my emotions right now. I was being selfish—"

"Don't be sorry," Jaime said, and surged forward to capture his lips.

This was bliss — every one of Jaime's senses filled with Arthur. Firm lips and the rasp of stubble against his cheek, his smell— his lips had parted, letting Jaime's tongue in, and his hands had come up to rest on Jaime's hips—

Jaime tried to press forward, to be more fully against Arthur's body, but there was— tension. Resistance. Hands braced against his hips, but not to draw him forward — not to hold him close. Arthur wasn't moving. He  _ wasn't _ kissing back—

Jaime broke away. Arthur's eyes fluttered open, and though his lips stayed parted, he didn't say anything.

Oh,  _ fuck. _ Jamie tried to step back, but he couldn't escape, either—  Arthur's hands were still on his hips anchoring him there. He looked into Arthur's eyes, desperately trying to read him.

"What is this?" Arthur asked. He wasn't giving off a lot of signals, Jaime had no idea what— oh fuck, he'd fucked this up completely—

Jaime froze with no words on his lips — he took a shaky breath that did nothing to fill his lungs. This was _ — fuck _ . He'd misread. Arthur had meant something else— He'd misread completely and fucked everything up. There was a certain level of trust they'd had going into this, the belief that this was an act and nothing more— Arthur wouldn't have agreed otherwise.  _ Of course _ Arthur wouldn't be interested. This was the worst idea he'd ever fucking had, and now Arthur would never want to be near him again, would never let Jaime touch him again—

"I shouldn't have— It won't happen again," Jaime promised.

Arthur's hands released him, and he leaned back against the wall. "I wish I could make everything better," he said. "If this is what you need— I want to help you. But if this is just physical, if this is just a distraction, it'll only hurt both of us in the end. I won't hurt you more, and I— I don't know if I could take it."

Wait— did Arthur want—? Jaime violently shook his head. "No— No." Was that what Arthur wanted to hear? "This isn't— that's not what it is."

Arthur's eyes shut, and his chest expanded with a deep, shaky breath. "I don't do casual," he said, and he took half a step closer. "I told you that."

"You did." Jaime's chest ached — the certainty that he would not get what he wanted had given way to just a sliver of maybe— maybe they could— "I want more. I want so much more."

Arthur's hand came up to trace over Jaime's cheek, skimming over and around his ear, settling at the back of his neck. His entire body had gone numb, except for where Arthur touched him, and he couldn't move, could only watch as Arthur came closer. When he kissed Jaime again, it was gentle, almost excruciatingly so, but Jaime's heart was pounding with terror. Fuck, he was going to fuck this up again— if he pushed, he would drive Arthur away and he couldn't bear that—

Arthur had always exuded strength and confidence— Before today, Jaime had never seen anything less on his face or in his bearing. As he drew away this time and his eyes searched Jaime's, he saw vulnerability there. His touch was so light, as if the connection between them was fragile as spun sugar. He was  _ afraid _ , Jaime realized, noting his stillness, tense shoulders, teeth biting down on his lip. Just as afraid as he was.

But they had no reason for fear.

So he followed and kissed him again. Arthur  _ yielded _ , let Jaime press him up against the wall, started to kiss back— Bit by bit, the tension left him— He returned Jaime's touch — hands slipping up under his shirt, sending a wave of heat running through him that built and built — not exploring, really, just holding. Holding Jaime tight against him, as if he was something precious.

"I'm having a hard time believing this is happening," Arthur said, when they stopped for breath.

Jaime laughed. "Hell, me too." He brought his mouth to Arthur's neck this time, and felt more than heard the sharp intake of breath when he began to tease with lips and tongue. Jaime had a spot below his ear, behind his jaw that made him go weak and mindless, seeking nothing but more pleasure — he wanted to find it on Arthur. He didn't think he had yet, but they were both enjoying the effort— Arthur's hands tightened against his ribs, but Jaime wanted to make him move, explore—

When Jaime found that spot on his neck, he knew from the bite of Arthur's fingernails into his back— the slight pain sent jolts of pleasure shooting through him, and so did the little noise Arthur made in the back of his throat— He bit at the spot gently, testing— Arthur's head tipped back even more, and he pressed forward as much as he could, straining to get more pressure on that point.

He started to tug Arthur's shirt up, and that seemed to bring him back to himself a moment — his eyes focused and though he was still breathless, he looked a little less dazed. He shrugged out of his shirt quickly and helped Jaime out of his, and then his hands were moving, running over Jaime's body— his eyes following, admiring. Jaime had wanted this— his heart was pounding so hard that Arthur must feel it, and he leaned into Arthur's touch, turning to direct Arthur's hands where he wanted them. Wandering his chest and around his sides, up along the line of his shoulders, trailing down his spine, tracing over his hip, rubbing a circle there and hooking down into his jeans. Drawing him closer again.

Arthur claimed his lips again with a fierce heat, tongue and teeth grazing Jaime's lower lip, but he drew away too soon, kissed the corner of his mouth— Then he lowered his mouth to Jaime's neck, tongue and the graze of teeth there, too, kissing and sucking. Jaime thought he might squirm out of his skin trying to get closer, and turned his head to guide Arthur again—

He  _ might _ have whimpered a little when Arthur got it perfect, and felt Arthur's smile against his neck. Gentle teeth on his earlobe— Licking and biting along his collarbone, kisses to his shoulders—

"You have really nice shoulders," Arthur murmured, nipping there. "Really nice everything, really, but your shoulders— your back—" His fingers traced the muscles there; Jaime shivered and felt Arthur's smile again, against his skin.

"So  _ that's _ why you gave me the back rub the other day," Jaime got out, breathlessly.

Arthur drew away just slightly to look into Jaime's eyes. "Did you honestly not pick up on that?" he asked.

"Wait, really? I thought you were just being nice."

" _ Nice. _ Just friends giving friends shirtless massages, completely platonic," Arthur teased. "I thought you didn't—"  he stopped.

"What?"

"I thought you didn't want anything else," he said quietly. "You didn't want how I felt."

Jaime tilted his head, making sure he had Arthur's eyes. "I wouldn't have let you touch me like that unless I wanted more," he said.

His words were hesitant. "I told you I would give you anything, and you didn't even take a kiss."

" _ That _ was what you meant?" Jaime asked. "Let me make up for it." He brought their lips together again. Arthur wanted to spend the rest of his life showing Jaime he deserved better _? Jaime _ would spend the rest of his life showing Arthur he was wanted, that everything he felt was returned.

This kiss was more serious— intense, more focused than fierce. Arthur cupped Jaime's face in both of his hands, and Jaime steered them towards the bed. When Arthur sank back, he looked up at Jaime reverently, his eyes running all over Jaime's body— it made Jaime's breath come short, but the heat spreading under his skin puffed out his chest all the same.

"I like when you look at me like that—" Somehow, Jaime was kind of half standing, half straddling Arthur— he tried to move closer, but—

Arthur braced his hands against Jaime's chest so he couldn't follow. "Like this, you mean?" he asked, looking Jaime over again. "I like it, too."

His gaze was intoxicating, but still— "Not  _ now _ ," Jaime groaned. "Now I want—"

He tried to squirm past Arthur's hands, but Arthur held him firmly. "Tell me what you want," he whispered, his lips only a breath away from Jaime's.

"You," Jaime said in a rush. "You, I want to feel you, I want—"

His words morphed into a groan as Arthur pulled him down on top, but when Arthur laid fingers over his lips, he quieted. Heat radiated off Arthur, and Jaime felt it even better with their bare chests pressed together, skin against skin. He stared down at Arthur, at his lips, kiss-swollen, his eyes, dark and glossy. Coming closer— another searing kiss that drove away rational thought— blood was pooling deeper, lower, and Jaime couldn't think anymore, could only feel—

Arthur was hard, and so was he— that much, he could tell, but he couldn't feel as much as he wanted. There were still layers of clothes between them — jeans, underwear — and he wanted to feel Arthur directly. Luckily, undoing buttons was way easier than the other way around— They clumsily finished undressing each other, and Jaime spent a moment touching and admiring Arthur's thighs, while coming to terms with the fact that he was sitting between them. Not to mention, they were both naked and hard and breathless, and Jaime wasn't sure he'd ever been more terrified or excited in his life.

He hesitantly touched Arthur's cock. Jaime'd never had a cock in his mouth before, but he knew — in theory, if not in practice — how to make it feel good. If nothing else, enthusiasm was a plus, right?

_ Yes _ , that it was. Judging by the strangled gasp Arthur made as he took him in, anyway. Oh  _ fuck _ , Jaime had no idea what he was doing, but it was fun to try— the pressure of his lips around Arthur's hardness, the suction, swiping and swirling with his tongue— Arthur seemed to enjoy all of it. Fingertips digging into Jaime's shoulders or tangling into his hair, tiny noises Arthur wouldn't let grow into full-bodied groans, the slight jerk of his hips as he tried to keep from being pushy.

Arthur's hands caressed Jaime's face, and he paused. "Do you have lube?" Arthur asked, all in a rush. "Do you even want—?"

Jaime pulled back a moment, letting Arthur's cock out of his mouth. "I don't have any, sorry—"

"It's fine— another time," Arthur said.

That struck a chord of pleasure deep in Jaime's chest. Arthur wanted to do this again.  _ Planned _ on it, even. What would it be like when Arthur fucked him? Jaime had nothing to compare it to, no basis to imagine— "How would you fuck me?" he asked.

Arthur's eyes fixed on his. "Have you done it before?" Jamie shook his head. "I'll be gentle," he promised.

"I know— Describe it for me?"

Arthur nodded, his eyes running up and down Jaime's body again— sparks started to jolt up his spine at the look. He shivered and took Arthur's cock into his mouth again.

"I could tell you about our first time—" Arthur started. "How much I want to share that with you. To learn you, worship you—" Jaime sucked hard, and Arthur trailed off a moment— his hands stroked through Jaime's hair as he got his words back. "To know the way I move brings you pleasure— to feel that with you, together—"

Jaime ran his fingers over Arthur— abs, down the trail of dark hair, over the line of his hipbone— Arthur squirmed at the touch and pressed his hips forward just slightly. Jaime took him deeper, but not enough to make it uncomfortable. The tiny noise Arthur made sent a wave of heat over Jaime, made his cock throb. Jaime couldn't stand it, he needed to feel—

Jaime took his own cock in hand and stroked, groaning around Arthur— his breath hitched and he lifted his head to look Jaime over again, eyes landing where Jaime was touching himself.

Arthur let out a breathy gasp. "Don't finish before I get a chance to taste you," he said. Jaime hummed in agreement around him — he would certainly _ try —  _ and Arthur's hand tightened in his hair. He started to suck again, and Arthur threw his head back and made one of those little bitten-off groans, not giving it a chance to grow.

"Do you want to hear me to tell you how I'll cover you with kisses while I fuck you, and hold you in my arms as you come—" Arthur's hands firmly took hold of Jaime's face, and pulled Jaime's mouth off his cock. "Or would you rather feel my mouth now?"

Jaime's heart leapt in his chest — he suddenly didn't have enough air. Certainly no words.

He nodded, and while his brain was still catching up, Arthur flipped them so  _ Jaime _ was the one pressed back into the mattress. Arthur's hand came down to Jaime's, still around his cock— helped him squeeze, hard. "You're amazing, but I've wanted to do this for so long," he said, taking Jaime's hand away and giving it a few strokes himself.

A embarrassingly loud moan pulled its way from Jaime's throat.

Arthur stopped. "We're in your father's house," he scolded— at least that was the tone Jaime thought he was going for. It didn't really work with the huge smile on his face. "Being a bad guest is one thing, but I think _ loudly blowing his son in the middle of the afternoon _ would be way over that line."

"It's not really afternoon anymore," was the only thing Jaime could think to say.

Arthur laughed. "Make as much noise as you want once we're out of this house," he said. His voice was the deepest Jaime had heard it, and it made him shiver with pleasure. He wasn't sure he'd get used to this, that Arthur wanted this _ again _ — he _ planned _ on doing this again _ —  _ "But for now,  _ hush. _ "

He met Jaime's eyes as he bent over and kissed the tip of Jaime's cock.

Oh fuck.

Everything that wasn't Arthur faded from existence— Arthur's hot mouth around him, his tongue doing something amazing— Jaime's head thrown back into the pillows, the rest of him arching— hand grabbing at Arthur's shoulder— His hips mindlessly trying to thrust forward, to feel  _ more, _ and Arthur's firm grip holding him still while he worked—

He was close— was it embarrassingly close? Jaime hadn't exactly been paying attention to the time. His entire body was tensing up with the build of it— the coiling pleasure that wanted to burst from him, and the moan he was choking back into his throat. Arthur had told him to be quiet, and he had to obey—

Jaime came with both his hands pressed to his mouth, his vision blacking to static and his head spinning. In an instant, everything was loose, warm, relaxed— his brain was full of fluff and he didn't quite know what was happening until he realized Arthur was pressing gentle kisses all over his face.

"Good?" Arthur asked.

Jaime nodded. Word weren't— words were difficult.

He shifted to the side, trying to give Arthur room to lie down next to him, but then he saw that Arthur was still stroking himself. "No," Jaime said, reaching out to bat Arthur's hand away from his still-hard cock. "I want to. Just give me a minute."

Arthur laughed and let go of himself— Jaime wobbled as he sat up. His muscles still didn't want to cooperate with him, but he gestured for Arthur to lie back. Before he did, Arthur rubbed his hands over Jaime's shoulders, down his arms, and kissed him again.

"You're so perfect, Jaime," he whispered as Jaime lowered his mouth once more. "Please believe me."

It didn't take long at all before Arthur came, quietly, with a fist pressed to his mouth.

"I want to hear you," Jaime told him as he settled in next to him.

"As soon as we're home," Arthur promised, pulling Jaime into his arms, flush against his chest. They both laid there together, breathing heavily. His head was still buzzing with aftershocks of pleasure, and the idea of being parted from him felt unbearable, incomplete. Being tangled up in each other's arms, feeling the beat of Arthur's heart, the stir of his breath in his hair—

It was peace.

It was happiness that had seeped into his bones, it was a deep, calm confidence spreading alongside the satisfaction in his chest. Arthur wanted him — this hadn't been silly or stupid or doomed. And he knew Arthur was serious about it. He'd said he wanted something that would last.

This could be his life now. All of the things that had been driving him crazy all week — Arthur becoming part of everything, enmeshed in the day to day. Waking up together and falling asleep together, and all of the touches and kisses and closeness in between. Fitting the pieces of their lives together.

He ran his hand over Arthur again — though he started at his back, Arthur turned and shifted under his touch, guiding his hand over his side, down his chest. Sketching the line of his hipbones, and a slight squirm as fingertips traced over his abs — ticklish? Somehow Jaime hadn't expected that.

When Arthur tired of it, he pulled Jaime down for another kiss, the lazy exploration of each others' mouths. He could be patient; there was no urgency, no fear that this might disappear if he didn't claim whatever Arthur was willing to give him  _ now _ .

"So yesterday was— you thought I didn't want you?" Jaime asked.

Arthur nodded a little, but said, "I didn't know— after the gingerbread I was certain you wanted—" he buried his face into Jaime's chest and stopped. "But I've been wrong before. Then I thought you'd figured out how I felt and didn't want that part of it."

"You're wanted— I—" It was too early to say  _ love _ , wasn't it? Even though Jaime thought it. "You're so important to me. I want this. I want you."

"And I want you," Arthur said, quietly. "This isn't a game anymore. This is something special — something just for us. It's not a spectacle or a performance, it's just— it's just you and me. That's all I want."

Jaime liked the sound of that. He was pretty sure there was a completely stupid smile on his face. "I want that, too."

He settled back into Arthur's arms again — warm, close, wrapped up in him — and never wanted to move. But the world was not so accommodating — Jaime's phone buzzed on the nightstand. It had buzzed sometime earlier, too, he thought. While they were distracted.

"Shouldn't you get that?" Arthur asked, sleepily, but he didn't protest when Jaime said  _ no _ . Not now.

No, Jaime didn't want to move, didn't want to part.

When he eventually did check his phone it was Tyrion.  _ Starting on dinner _ , and then fifteen minutes later, a string of suggestive emojis.

Jaime didn't bother to answer.

"We shouldn't leave them to cook on their own," Arthur said— he had a point, no matter how much Jaime disagreed with it.

Tyrion had assigned himself the job of wine-pourer, and it wasn't long before everything was bright and fuzzy, and Arthur was smiling and touching him freely.

Jaime still had no idea how to cook, so he followed Arthur's direction — mostly knifework, until Arthur noticed just how much Jaime couldn't focus right now. He moved Jaime to stirring something on the stove. "Just don't let it burn," he instructed, and that was mindless enough. He could do that and watch Arthur's hands as he worked — practiced, quick and confident. And Arthur touched him every time he passed by on his way to do something else — a hand on Jaime's arm or skimming across his shoulders or back — and every time it reminded him that this? This was something real.

Cersei arrived back sometime in the middle of it all, mysteriously without Robert. Jaime didn't notice until he saw her just through in the living room, sitting and watching — as her eyes darted back and forth between him and Arthur, she grew more and more tense, until she might snap like a rubber band.

Arthur, oblivious, stepped close to Jaime and kissed him, letting his hand rest on Jaime's hip while he was close.

"I'm gonna go call Ashara," he said. "I should be quick — she doesn't like a fuss, but I want to make sure she's doing okay."

"Yeah, go ahead," Jaime said, and kissed him again, lingering a moment, before Arthur disappeared down the stairs.

Jaime belatedly remembered to stir the pan. Not too burnt.

When he next turned to face the room, looking to see if Arthur was coming back yet, he saw that Cersei had cornered him. Arthur's face had turned to stone as he listened to whatever poison she had to say. 

"Just getting to know each other," was her explanation, through a piercing smile, when Jaime went over to pull Arthur away. "I know he's important to you."

There was no way that was good.

Arthur was quiet throughout dinner, and though Jaime tried to draw him out — pressing their legs together under the table, touching his forearm, trying to catch his eye with a smile — he didn't say more than a few words at a time the entire evening.

"Something's wrong," Jaime said, when they were back in his room, changing for bed.

Arthur hesitated before he spoke. "Your sister said something kind of weird, and I want to know what she meant." His brows lowered, he bit his lip, and Jaime's heart plunged into his stomach. "She said some stuff about how this isn't serious for you, how it's not gonna last. Whatever, bullshit. But she also—" he stopped and started again— "she said some very suggestive things."

Jaime's heart was pounding again, but in a shitty way this time. "Like what?"

"Like. Intimate.  _ Descriptive _ ."

Oh no. Jaime started to feel numb again. "Our relationship wasn't always the same as it is now." Fuck fuck fuck fuck  _ fuck _ . This was not— no, not what he wanted to say— "It was a while ago, though?"  _ Fuck. _

" _ How _ not the same?" Arthur pressed. There was that unnatural stillness in his face again, and he wasn't looking directly at Jaime, sort of over his shoulder—

"We've, um. We've actually slept together," Jaime said, feeling his life falling apart with each word.

"Oh," Arthur said, but his face had gone completely blank. There had been concern before, but now there was nothing. "That— I don't know what to say to that."

Fury bubbled up in him. His chest was slashed open and each beat of his heart was a stab. "Don't fucking say anything then. You don't know— fucking judging me—" Today had been pain and pleasure and pain again— he wanted to  _ hurt. _ He didn't deserve— how dare Arthur  _ judge _ — "Get away from me— I don't want you here. This was a fucking mistake, all of it." Why had he ever thought this was a good idea?

Arthur's eyes fluttered shut, but his face remained still. He took a deep breath, but didn't say anything.

"The  _ fuck _ are you still doing here?" Jaime demanded, but he didn't mean it. He didn't mean any of it, but he just— it was useless and stupid, but he wanted Arthur to hold him again. Everything was falling apart, and Arthur was so good at holding things together, and he just couldn't stand the idea of—

Of Arthur hating him. Arthur judging him. Arthur disgusted by him.

"If it's what you want, I'll go sleep on the couch," Arthur said quietly. "I'll be gone in the morning— you won't have to see me again."

No.  _ No _ , that wasn't what Jaime wanted. His voice came out small. "You think I'm disgusting and you hate me, but you don't  _ know _ —" Why had he said that? He wasn't weak, he wasn't about to beg forgiveness— he hadn't done anything  _ wrong.  _ Socially unacceptable, yes, but  _ wrong _ ?

He had loved her once, but was it wrong to love? How could it be? It was what made life worthwhile, the balm to a harsh world.

He couldn't stay here. He turned sharply for the door—

"No, Jaime—" Arthur caught him by the elbow. Jaime could have broken free easily, but he didn't want to. He stopped in his tracks. "I  _ don't _ know. I  _ don't _ understand. But I don't hate you— I don't think you're disgusting. I just—" He let out a long breath. "This is so far from anything I've ever experienced that I don't know what to do, or think."

"You  _ will _ hate me." If not now, then once it settled in. It would turn to poison inside him, everything Jaime loved about him twisting into an empty corruption of what it once had been. Jaime couldn't bear to watch it happen.

"We're both tired. We're both upset. This is a conversation that needs to happen, but nothing good's going to come of having it  _ now. _ " He rubbed a hand through his hair, messing it up. He shook his head and his face looked pained now, but above even that, he looked exhausted more than anything. "Please just come to bed."

Though they lay next to each other, it was like there was a wall between them— Arthur's body rigid and his breathing just as tight. He wasn't sleeping.

As for Jaime's part— a weird combination of nauseated and hollow. Everything was churning inside, but at the same time he felt like everything had been scraped out of him. Everything that had any  meaning. This wasn't— there wasn't any way of coming back from this, was there? He let out a long, shaky breath. For a few blessed hours he'd had something he'd never expected to experience again, and the loss felt raw, unreal.

He would have been better off never having that hope, so that he wouldn't have known the crush of its end.

Though Arthur's breathing eventually evened out, Jaime didn't find sleep for hours afterward.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (please don't hate me, ilu and I promise I will fix this)


	7. Crone

Jaime slept fitfully, and when Arthur began to move around in the morning, it woke him easily. His eyes, sore with sleeplessness, didn't want to open, and his stomach was emptied of everything except the twist of anxiety.

Last night's argument looked even uglier in the light of day.

"Morning," Arthur said, turning over. He still looked like hell, rumpled and exhausted and unsmiling. "Did you sleep?"

"Not really," Jaime said, swinging his legs out of bed.

But Arthur's fingertips brushed against his back, and when Jaime looked back at him, he was sitting up, looking a little softer, and groggy in the morning light.

"Can we talk now?" he asked, and Jaime's stomach turned to lead.

"If you want," Jaime said, slowly sitting back into bed, crossing his legs in front of him. This wasn't a conversation he was ready to have. This wasn't a conversation that had a  _ possibility _ of going well.

"I don't understand," Arthur said, "but I want to."

"Are you sure?" The words came out bitter.

Arthur's mouth did something funny. " _ Yes _ . I don't think you understand how much you mean to me." He blew out a breath. "This isn't something I'm taking lightly. Of course I want to understand."

He shouldn't say shit like that. Jaime might almost believe him. He laid back on the bed and folded his arms behind his head, staring pointedly at the ceiling. "Ask away."

Arthur hesitated. "Is this something you ever would have told me about, if I hadn't found out?"

_ No. _ "How exactly would this come up in conversation?"

Arthur nodded, his face grim, but he didn't say anything more to that. "How did it begin?"

"I don't really remember. Kids experimenting?" That was probably what had happened. It wasn't unheard of, right? "But it didn't stop."

"Besides the sexual stuff—" Arthur stopped again, and Jaime looked over. He was struggling with his words. Words were difficult. "What was the rest of your relationship like? Was it a romantic thing, too?"

"Sort of." It had been on his end, definitely, but as for Cersei... She'd been able to drop him so quickly.

"What does that mean?" Arthur asked.

Jaime looked away. "For me, yes. I used to think she felt the same, but I don't know anymore."

"Why do you—" he stopped again. "Why do you not know anymore?"

This wasn't something he wanted to answer, but Arthur had asked. "Her interest completely went away when—" he held up his stump. "She could barely look at me anymore. And then I found out she'd been with other guys, when I thought we—" he didn't want to admit to this. He hadn't wanted anyone else. But she—

Arthur took and let out a deep breath.

"I wonder now," Jaime continued, "if she ever cared as much as I did." Looking back, he started to realize a lot of her affection — not all of it, but a lot — was when she wanted something. She could be sharp with her words, even to him, and especially after his hand— but that wasn't when it had started. How many times had she called him an idiot? To be fair, he  _ had _ done a lot of stupid things as a teenager, including mouthing off at a jumpy mugger, which had obviously not ended well for him.

Arthur's fingers came to rest against the outside of his thigh, and  _ damn  _ him but the touch struck something deep inside him, stirring pain into each beat of his heart. He wanted— needed— to return the touch, but there was only his stump on that side and he— just couldn't.

"How do you feel about her now?" Arthur asked, his voice so soft that it almost disappeared into the smothering silence.

That was the question, wasn't it?

"I don't know. I want it to stop." They weren't two halves of a whole, they weren't the same person.  _ Us against the world _ — he'd truly believed that, once. "I want to hate her, but I can't— I just want it to go away." It was still difficult to look at Arthur, so he looked out the window instead. "I don't even think she wants me. She just doesn't want to see me with you."

"I know," Arthur said.

"Pisses me off," Jaime said. "Kind of satisfying to know I got under her skin for once, though."

Arthur's hand crept away. "Oh," he said. He got very still, but his lips parted and closed again before he spoke. "Are you just using me to make her jealous? If you are, that's fucked up."

"I am not  _ fucked up. _ " Heat flashed through him, the kind that scorched rather than warmed. "Fuck you," Jaime said. "You have no right to judge me—"

"I have every right, if you're dragging me into this—"

" _ Dragging _ you? You agreed to this—"

"I've been trying,  _ for months _ , to figure out what, exactly, I feel for you. If this is all some fucking mind game, I—" Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, shook his head, and got to his feet. "I really should just go."

"Wait—" Jaime scrambled out of bed after him. " _ What _ do you feel for me?"

"Does it really matter?" Arthur asked. He looked exhausted and small, folded in on himself too many times. "Please tell me it matters," he said, voice so brittle that it might crack.

"It matters," Jaime said. He couldn't find the words for it, but— "It matters."

"Great," Arthur said, but it didn't sound great.

Jaime's heart sank. "What do you even want out of this?" he asked.

"What?" Arthur asked tightly, not looking.

"Do you want to understand? Actually?"

"Yeah—"

"This is something that happened, and  _ nothing  _ can change it. If you're going to hold this against me forever— don't bother."

Arthur was still and silent for a long time — Jaime waited, breath rushing, for him to say something — and then he turned.

Dammit, dammit,  _ no _ , that wasn't what Jaime had wanted— he followed.

"I know I'm not handling this well right now," Arthur said. "I'm sorry. I don't know how to sort it out in my head." He walked on past. "I need to calm down— I'm going for a run."

As he started to move, everything around turned to a blur— Jaime watched him change and put on his running shoes. This was really happening. He was leaving. Jaime wanted to go stop him— Jaime wanted to hold him, wanted to burrow into his arms again, wanted to keep him here—

But if Arthur didn't want—

Jaime found himself folding back into bed again, squeezing a pillow to his chest.

Before he left, Arthur turned and saw him, and his stony face faltered. "I'll be back— I just need a couple hours. I need to figure myself out. I don't want to say something I don't mean."

He shouldn't say it, he shouldn't say it, but— "Are you leaving?"

"No—" Arthur said. "No." He sighed and took a couple steps back into the room, a couple steps closer. "If there's anything I know right now—" He stopped and looked like he was deciding whether to say something, too. "If I leave, I'll regret it forever."

He exited on soft feet, and the door closed behind him.

Jaime put his head down and closed his eyes— his energy had been sapped out of him, and he couldn't hold himself up anymore. He curled himself back up into bed around the pillow. The sheets still smelled like Arthur, but they were already cold again.

What might he have had, if this hadn't happened? If he hadn't fucked Cersei in the first place, or if he'd kept Arthur away from his family, if he'd never found out? If he'd kept ahold of his fucking temper and not driven Arthur away? If he hadn't said things he didn't really mean?

Rhaegar probably never put Arthur through all this bullshit— this was a level of bullshit Jaime didn't think anyone else could reach. And Rhaegar was calm, and thought things through, and was just everything Jaime wasn't. Arthur would be missing him now, wouldn't he?

Jaime wanted it all back — the time they'd spent in bed together, just touching each other. How peaceful that had felt. Feeling desired again for the first time in years, like he wasn't incomplete, the shadow of what someone might want. Being supported through all these waves of emotions, things he'd probably been suppressing for years. Seeing Arthur get excited over gingerbread, watching him wobble on ice skates.

But he only felt more hollow as he laid in bed, wrapped in blankets that did little to keep him warm— his stomach turning heavy and solid with anxiety and regret the longer he stayed still. He stood, slowly. He had to face the day eventually.

But it had been over an hour, and Arthur wasn't back. Was he coming back?

Jaime spent way too much time staring at the remaining clean clothes he had packed, not able to figure anything out from it and not really caring. Fuck it— It was all just shit—

He still didn't think he'd done anything  _ wrong _ . Complicated, yes. Not socially acceptable, yes. But not _ wrong _ .

When he went up, the first thing he saw was Cersei sitting in the living room, scrolling through her phone and looking entirely too fucking smug. She looked up as he came into the room, a smirk painted on her lips.

"Is everything okay? Arthur left a while ago and he looked really upset."

"Go fuck yourself," he said.

"No need to be rude." She put the phone down and stretched, pushing her chest out. "It's a shame. He seems so nice — too nice for you. He won't tell anyone, I know that much, but he won't take you back, if that's what you're hoping. Then what will you have?"

"You don't know a damn thing about him— you don't know a damn thing about  _ nice _ —"

"And  _ he _ doesn't know anything about you. He can't understand you. No one can ever know you the way I do."

" _ You _ don't either, if you think I want this—"

She stood and took purposeful steps forward. "I don't care what you want. I care about what's inevitable." She took him by the shoulders. "We're the same, you and me. We're part of each other," she breathed against his lips, and then she kissed him, hard and fierce and hungry.

Even a week ago, it would have been everything he wanted, but now it was like worms writhing under his skin— her lips the bitterness of pain and disappointment. He shuddered, and she must have taken that for a shiver of pleasure, because she hummed and moved closer—

He shoved her away— her eyes flashed open and burned into him, even as she stumbled back with slack-jawed shock.

"I'm not part of you— we're not the same," he sputtered, drawing himself up straight and trying to put space between them.

"We are," she said, and there was something about the way she moved— fury simmering beneath the surface, an animal stalking prey. "You can try to leave me behind — to leave our family behind — but this is part of who you are. You can pretend it doesn't exist, but you can't escape it."

He turned and went to the kitchen, trying to figure out breakfast, and she followed.

"I don't even understand what you see in him. He's so  _ boring _ ."

"You don't know anything," he snapped, slamming the fridge shut. He put together something resembling a sandwich and went somewhere he knew she wouldn't follow.

When you lived in a house that was mostly underground, carved into the face of a mountain,  _ basement _ was an arbitrary term, but still Jaime found his feet taking him there. It was where all of Mom's things were kept — the things Dad could not stand to see, but could not stand to get rid of. Boxes of her books, sketchbooks, things she had made.

They'd looked through, briefly, a couple times when they were younger. There were the boxes they had taken down last time, right where they'd been left. Apparently Dad didn't come down here much, either. Jaime went off in the other direction — he didn't want to look at those again right now.

The boxes on the other side of the room looked different — lighter, and with more artistry than heavy duty cardboard moving boxes. Jaime took one down effortlessly — there was no weight to it — and took off the top. Tissue paper, and underneath that, a formal dress. Deep, rich red, the color of wine, clean lines and the gentle sheen of satin. He couldn't picture how she might have looked wearing it, but they all had roughly the same coloring, didn't they? He held out his hand next to it. It was the right shade of red — his skin looked kind of glowy and golden next to it — but he hadn't really expected anything less than that from her, had he?

He replaced the lid without putting his fingers to the fabric.

Same thing with the next one, and the next — all deep, rich jewel tones, sometimes with tasteful beading or embroidery. Most of them stood up to time well — not much evidence of outdated trends, more classic than anything. And there were a lot of them. Dad attended a lot of events and dinners, Jaime supposed — she must have joined him, all those years ago.

When he lifted a lid and saw white beneath, he stopped. Her wedding dress. He lifted it out of the box gently, careful to only touch the tissue paper — he might dirty it, if he touched it with his skin. Airy, delicate fabric — chiffon, or charmeuse, or something that started with that sound. He couldn't place the word.

He set it back down. He really shouldn't touch this. He shouldn't have gone looking. It was something— something private he had intruded on, memories that weren't his to have. He boxed the dresses up and put them back— but now he was curious. They had to have wedding pictures somewhere — pictures felt less intimate, and he wanted to see what she had looked like.

He searched again through the stacked boxes, all neatly labeled. Who had written them? It wasn't Dad's handwriting. Loopier, more flowing than that. Probably an aunt or an uncle or, hell, maybe movers or something. Dad probably hadn't wanted to go through all of this himself.

There— a row of boxes all labeled  _ Photographs _ , with years neatly marked. He took the one that should have it, and there they were— albums inside. He pulled out the one with the nicest cover, and there she was. Beautiful, with a smile he didn't remember. Smile _ s _ he didn't remember — there was Dad, too, looking happier than Jaime could ever recall seeing him.

More pages, family members he recognized. All his uncles, standing by Dad's side. Mom's bridesmaids— he didn't recognize a single one of them.

He put it back. All of them were strangers, in a way — all of them changed by the intervening years.

And then he felt himself drawn back to the sketchbooks again — the things he had already seen, searched through with Tyrion years ago. He flipped through familiar scenes — him and Cersei at the fountain again. He turned away from that one quickly. Dad in a few places, smiling — still so strange to see.

Her people-watching sketches were his favorite — at least those people were  _ supposed _ to be strangers. He didn't feel guilty for not recognizing them, rather than the people they had become.

The next one he opened was— it wasn't a sketchbook, but a journal. He ran senseless fingers over the lines, skimmed through the pages without really reading.

Her handwriting was like his— rushed and slanted, one letter blending into the next. Shorthand that he couldn't decipher. Sometimes just bulleted lists, thoughts abruptly truncated, jumping between ideas with little apparent connection. Some things expanded over pages, others crossed out.

Curious —  _ curious _ . He wanted to know, wanted to read — wanted to know something of who she was. But these thoughts weren't meant for his eyes.

"You don't want to read those," came Tyrion's voice. Once he came close, he set his hand flat on the open pages and pushed it down in Jaime's hand.

Jaime snapped it shut. "Why not?"

"It might not be what you're expecting to find." Tyrion looked up at him and paused. "You have lipstick," he said, gesturing to his own mouth.

_ Gross _ . Jaime scrubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand, and it came away with streaks of red.

Tyrion sat down across from him. "What happened?"

"Which part of  _ what happened _ do you want?" Jaime asked. Which part of everything that had gone wrong, everything Jaime had fucked up?

"Arthur came back," Tyrion said, watching him. Assessing. "Tysha's got him occupied— asked him to help her practice her statement." It was sort of in the spirit of Crone's Day. Almost. Riddles, puzzles, and the written word— "But he obviously has a lot on his mind, and he doesn’t seem like the type to wear lipstick. What the fuck happened?"

"Cersei. She told him," Jaime said.

Tyrion had to know — they'd never spoken about it, but he wasn't  _ blind _ . Not like dad — infrequently around but with expectations so rigid that he was used to reality conforming, not the other way around. Sometimes, he saw what he wanted to see. He'd seen what he wanted to see in Jaime for years, until Jaime had repeatedly proven him wrong. A disappointment.

Tyrion was a bit more observant than that.

"Oh." Tyrion slid down to sit heavily against a box. "That's not good."

"No shit."

"What happened? How did he react?"

"Not good. We fought, last night and this morning." Well, mostly Jaime had fought.

"So, how are you going to fix it?" Tyrion asked.

"Is there a fucking point?"

"Of course there is—" Tyrion scoffed. "Our lives are fucked up. Tysha's been showing me that." When Tyrion said it, it didn't feel like a judgment. It felt like a truth. "He's good for you. None of us are inclined to happiness, I think, and you've been happy. Let him help you— let him show you how different it can be. It'll be worth the effort."

"I know he's worth it— I just don't think he wants to anymore," Jaime said. It was a little too far gone for that.

Tyrion looked up. "I can't know what he was thinking, but he was concerned that we didn't know where you were." His fingers drummed against a cardboard flap. "How bad are you expecting this to be?"

"I'm surprised he's still here. And that he gives a shit where I am."

"He is and he does."

"Helpful."

"Hey, I'm not just gonna tell you what you want to hear. I don't know what's gonna happen. But he gives a shit."

"I don't know how the fuck I explain this to him," Jaime muttered. "How could  _ anyone _ understand—"

" _ I _ don't understand," Tyrion cut in. "And, frankly, I don't  _ want _ to understand. But I don't need to. It's not like this has changed anything about who you are."

Well. Who Jaime was— it was already pretty crap, wasn't it?

He looked down, and the journal was still in his lap. He held it up. "What is this, if it's not what I want to find?"

Tyrion blew out a long breath. "It... shatters the illusion."

"What?"

"I came back down here a lot, after you went away. Looking. Wondering what would have happened if she was still alive. I never knew her, and I wanted to— would she have loved me? I still don't know." He flicked the cardboard again. "I had a vision in my head, what I wanted to find. Softness and light and dreams."

Jaime put the book down. "It wasn't what you found."

"She loved Dad, and you, and Cersei. You were perfect in her eyes. Everything she did was for you— for a good future. So you would hold power. So you would command respect. I always liked to think of her as Dad's opposite in every way. If only she had lived, life would have been perfect. Warm. But she was just as ambitious as he is." Tyrion walked over to another box and climbed up onto the one next to it so he could see inside. When he found the book he was looking for, he passed it over to Jaime. "Maybe her methods would have been different. But with some of the more questionable things Dad has done— she didn't necessarily disagree."

Jaime ran his fingers along the edges of the pages.

"Would I have been perfect in her eyes, too?" Tyrion asked, quietly. He was sitting beside the boxes now, almost out of sight. "Or would I have been the blight upon her perfect family?"

"Perfect." Jaime's laugh was a bitter one. "Yeah.  _ Perfect _ is a good word."

Tyrion just sighed and looked up at the ceiling. "Read it if you like," he said. "But don't go too deep. Some parts aren't pleasant."

Jaime nodded. Somehow he knew.

"I'll leave you to it," Tyrion said, getting to his feet and starting back up the stairs.

"Thank you," Jaime said, but his voice came out softly. He didn't know if Tyrion would hear him over his footsteps, but his head turned a little when he reached the top— maybe he had. 

Jaime stared at the two books. The journal Tyrion had handed him was probably the worst of it, right? If he'd picked that particular one out of the entire box. That one was for later, then. He couldn't— he couldn't. He set it aside and picked up the one he'd first picked out, tracing his fingers over the cover. It was the right hand, so it wasn't like he could feel anything— some things like that were still habit, though.

It was from when he and Cersei were very young— frustration and sleepless nights and somehow, beauty strung through all of it, even the bits that should have been ugly. She was good with her words. Dad was different, too, back then, but maybe that was just the way she wrote, or the way she saw the world.

He flipped a page. Oh.

His grandfather — he knew Dad didn't have a great opinion of him. Soft, irresponsible, disgraceful—

_ Soft, irresponsible, disgraceful— _ Jaime shook the thought away.

But Jaime hadn't known about the legal battle after his death, and how completely screwed over Tytos's partner had been in the aftermath. Partner? Girlfriend? Were you supposed to still call yourselves boyfriend and girlfriend when you were that old?

Semantically, it didn't really matter, did it?

All that mattered was what had been done, and that Mom had done just as much of it as Dad.

His phone buzzed, on top of the box next to him. Arthur.  _ I'm ready to talk when you are _ , he said.  _ But I don't want to rush you — take all the time you need. _

Jaime put the phone down again. He wasn't ready to answer— he didn't know how to answer. He set it aside, and put the book back in its box. He didn't feel like reading anymore, but as he reached out for the other one, the one Tyrion had given him—

He didn't want to read it. But he did. Some part of him needed to, needed to know what he was— what he had come from.

When he felt brave enough, he opened it.

Mostly happy things, pictures of a perfect life, like Tyrion had said. This one was before any of them were born — before Mom and Dad were even married. Little, unnervingly romantic, things he had done for her. Frustrations, from work or just from life. And a few details here and there that began to add up to something much, much worse.

The Reynes... He knew Dad had something to do with it, but he hadn't known details. He hadn't known the level of planning that had gone into it.

A shoddily-constructed spillway, the zoning of the surrounding land, dozens of manipulations over the course of years. The details all recorded here. Then, when snow melt flooded the river in the spring, the dams at Castamere had burst, directly into the manufacturing district. People had died — drowned, or poisoned by contaminated water in the years after. Now, twenty? thirty? years later, it was still considered a toxic waste site.

No one had ever pinned it on Dad — the Reynes had taken the fall. His name was attached to bits and pieces, but only indirectly, and those pieces came out slowly. Some suspected — the Reynes, certainly — but would anyone else ever put it together?

Jaime put that journal back down into the bottom of the box. Mom had  _ disagreed _ , but not enough to change his mind. Not enough to leave.

But who was Jaime to judge? He hadn't even considered leaving Cersei until after she made it clear he was no longer wanted.

Maybe he did take after Mom a little, after all.

_ The things we do for love _ . The things he'd do for Arthur.

He closed his eyes. He could do this. He could talk. And, if Arthur was still open to it — they could work this out.

* * *

 

"She would have loved you," he told Tyrion.

"But how do you  _ know? _ "

She had loved all of them, faults and all— had loved him, she had loved Cersei. She had loved Dad, despite everything he had done. Rivals he'd driven out of business, courtroom battles fought to draw blood. All of the people killed as collateral while he settled his grudges.

And Tyrion had done nothing wrong.

"I know," he said. "I just know."

* * *

 

He and Arthur retreated back to Jaime's room after they had eaten— Arthur was a little gentler, more emotive, and that inflated a little bubble of hope. It was a tiny bubble in the midst of a vast, murky storm, but at least it was there.

Arthur hesitated as they sat, facing each other. "Do you want to go first, or do you want me to?"

"Go ahead," Jaime said. He curled and uncurled his fingers, one hand then the other, focusing on the movements.

Arthur took a deep breath. "Tysha and I talked for a while. She gave me a lot to think about." His eyes darted up to meet Jaime's just for a moment. "I didn't tell her what was going on, but she knew something was wrong."

Jaime nodded.

"I'm sorry for how I've been," he said. "You're right, this is something that happened, and nothing can change that." He combed a hand through his hair. "This is complicated, and not something I ever expected to encounter, and I didn't know how to handle it."

He clasped his hands together, then regretted it when he felt the plastic. "So how are you going to handle it?"

Arthur sighed. "Still don't know, but hopefully better than I have been."

That wasn't particularly helpful. "What do you want?"

"I want to get past this. I don't know what that's going to look like." He was watching Jaime, and though his face was tense, he didn't look angry. "What do you want?"

"I want that, too."

"Okay." He took a deep breath. "Okay."

The words caught in Jaime's throat a moment before they came out. "I don't know if this is something I can really explain." He didn't even understand it completely— "I don't need you to understand, exactly, but I need you to accept that it happened." And hopefully, someday, not think of him any differently for it.

Arthur was quiet for so long that Jaime was certain he'd said the wrong thing, but then he said, "The thing is, I don't— I can kind of understand, parts, anyway—" He stopped and started again. "I don't know if this is my place to say."

"What?"  _ What _ did he think he understood?

"Your father's abusive. Verbally, at least. Not just to Tyrion, to all of you. I've been thinking it ever since dinner, that first night— he said all that shit in front of company, what the hell does he say to you when you're alone—" He shifted, shook his head. "And you guys were just kids. I can kind of see— growing up like that, how you could get very... Close." He rubbed at his temples. "I can't judge you for that. I'm not  _ comfortable _ with it, but I can't judge it, and I just don't know. I don't know anymore."

Jaime's next breath was difficult to draw into shaky lungs. "You still think there's something wrong with me." It was a struggle to keep his voice even, but he thought he about managed it.

"No." That word was firm, said with authority. "I think you've never had the support you needed."

"How is that different?"

"There's nothing wrong with needing things. And— at the museum—" He stopped, and his eyes flicked down, thinking. "There's a lot of pain still there. There's nothing wrong with that, either. "

_ At the museum _ . "It wasn't just him," Jaime said. Should he even say this? Would it make Arthur freak out more? "Actually, I didn't even think about him. It was Cersei."

Arthur's face went dark —  _ dammit _ — but he reached out. Maybe not dammit— but it was  _ pathetic _ how much Jaime wanted to be in his arms again. How easy it would be for Arthur to destroy him just by taking that away.

He met Arthur hesitantly, fearing his touch would be snatched away as quickly as it was given, but Arthur just wrapped his arm around Jaime's waist and they sat, side by side.

"That's not your fault," he said quietly. "I'm sorry— I'm starting to understand better. I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry for?"

"That you haven't been loved the way you should have been."

_ How? _ How should he have been? Jaime didn't know anything different. There was always striving to impress, diving after affection intermittently given, if at all. Feeling bereft and incomplete as often, or more than, he felt loved and cared for.

"I can't talk about this anymore."

"Okay," Arthur said. "I'll leave it."

Then there was the careful way Arthur treated him. Affectionate. Considerate. Some of the things he had said— When love grows from friendship— When exactly had it started, for him?  _ Months _ , he had said, trying to figure out what he felt. He'd been thinking ahead— as if he'd been imagining Jaime in his life, in his bed, on a more long-term basis.

He would spend the rest of his life showing Jaime— what exactly? How long had he wanted this? And did he still want it?

They were still holding each other. Still sitting side by side.

Under the cover of darkness, while they both pretended they were trying to sleep— they weren't wrapped up in each other like they had been before, but Arthur's hand reached across the space between them and settled against Jaime's side.

Jaime couldn't help shifting just a little closer. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much <3


	8. Stranger

The other side of the bed was empty when Jaime woke up, but he heard Arthur moving around the room. "Good morning," Jaime said as he stretched and rolled over in bed, not quite ready to get up yet.

Arthur didn't answer but he came over, footsteps soft against the carpet. Jaime lifted his eyes to Arthur's face — his movements were more calm, not jerky like they were yesterday, and his face wasn't tight with strife. But he wasn't looking at Jaime, engrossed in his phone instead.

Okay. He was still upset. That wasn't entirely unexpected, but it deflated the rising hope that had come with seeing Arthur more relaxed. He'd thought maybe things were on their way to mending, but…

Jaime's buzzed on the nightstand. He looked over. Was Arthur texting him from the same damn room?

 _Don't know how seriously you take Stranger's day_ , he said. _It's more of a thing in Dorne, I think._

The last day of the year, devoted to the Stranger — meant to be kept in reflection, to say farewell to the passing year and prepare to welcome the new. _Quietly_. It was a weird tradition, leftover from the medieval days when the Stranger's Sisters had been sworn to silence. Jaime'd thought it was only religious fanatics who were all that strict about it, and Arthur had never struck him as the type. Traditional, maybe, but not particularly spiritual.

Another message popped up. _Technically not supposed to write either, but technically this isn't writing_ . Then, _I know we still need to talk more but this is something I've always done._

"I didn't think you were all that religious," Jaime said.

 _Being public about it isn't the point,_ Arthur said.

"What is the point, then?" Jaime asked. "We didn't really grow up with… any of this."

Arthur's jaw moved as he thought. _I don't know how to explain it. I think it's something you feel or you don't,_ he said.

Not something Jaime had ever felt, not that he'd tried. "We can go up to the Sept in town, if you want," he offered, but Arthur shook his head.

 _Sept is unbearable,_ he said, then wrote and rewrote something for a couple minutes. Jaime tried to be patient, but then Arthur sat down on the bed and put his hand on Jaime's knee to stop him fidgeting.

Oh good, they were still touching each other. Good sign. That had to be a good sign.

 _Some people make faith into a competition,_ he said eventually. _I hate seeing that._

"I'm very competitive, but I think I can let you have this one," Jaime said.

A little half-smile quirked up the corner of Arthur's mouth — _fuck_ , it was a relief to see — and it was a moment before he took his hand away. Jaime hadn't realized exactly how tense he was until a fraction of it left him. Progress.

"Is there anything you want to do, then?" Jaime asked. He didn't know much beyond the basics. Quiet, to varying degrees. Solemnity. Reflection. Honor to the dead and to all things that had passed.

 _I want to spend the day with you,_ Arthur said. Jaime might save that text forever— screenshot it, put it on the cloud, where nothing ever truly died.

"Want to go explore the old castle?" Jaime asked. The ruins at least were somber enough to fit the spirit of the day. "There's a Sept up there, I think mostly intact. You won't have to deal with people."

 _Sure_ , Arthur answered. He stretched, twisting one way, then the other, and Jaime wanted to touch him, rub the tension out of him like Arthur had done days before. His hair was sticking up a little, and Jaime's fingers itched to smooth it down—

But his arms were frozen and he could not reach out.

"Hey," he asked, feeling silly about it, before they left the room. "Are we okay?"

Something desperate must have come across in his voice, because Arthur immediately turned and caught Jaime's arm in his hand, and nodded. Then, he couldn't tell— was Arthur drawing him closer, or was Jaime doing it on his own?

When Arthur's arms wrapped around him, relief flooded Jaime's veins with a force that shook him down to his roots. Deep, focused breaths — he felt strangely numb, tingles sparking across his face, turning slowly to warmth as Arthur tightened the embrace. Something thick had settled in Jaime's chest, and he had to keep forcing it down, or else he didn't know what would happen—

For a long moment, they were tangled up together, Jaime grounding himself by the feel of Arthur's pounding heart. Arthur's nose brushed past Jaime's cheek, and he nestled their faces together — not quite a kiss, no, that was maybe too much to hope for so soon — but he lingered there a long time. Feeling the warmth of his skin, the tickle of his hair against Jaime's cheek.

But eventually the moment had to end.

Arthur pulled out his phone again and showed Jaime the screen as he typed out — _Still have things to talk about — what you need, what I need. What this looks like going forward. We're both feeling… shaky? Insecure?_ Jaime nodded. Those were good words. _Think about what you need to not feel like that. I'll do the same. We'll talk about it._

"Okay," Jaime said. Asking for things wasn't something he really did. Not serious things, anyway— not getting something was less disappointing if he'd never asked for it in the first place. That way, it wasn't that he wasn't good enough, that he didn't deserve it— he just hadn't asked. A choice, not something intrinsic to his being.

 _I want this to work out,_ Arthur wrote. _I want you. So we need to know how to help each other._

Okay. He could try.

Tyrion's door was ajar when they passed by, and Jaime tapped at it and stuck his head through to say hi and bye.

They both looked at him expectantly. "Have you guys worked things out?" Tysha asked in hushed tones.

"We're talking, but not really talking," Jaime answered. "I mean, we're going to talk. After midnight. He's doing the silence thing. But we're going to go look through the ruins today."

"The romantic atmosphere is unparalleled," Tyrion said dryly.

"It'll be okay, though?" Tysha asked. "Yesterday he was kind of quiet, but we talked, and it seemed like he was doing better."

"I'm feeling better than I was yesterday morning," Jaime said. It wasn't saying much, but it was all he really could say. "What did you talk about?"

She shrugged. "Trading tips on conflict management. He had a lot to say about dealing with your dad, and I told him that, you know. The future's the most important thing. Who you both are now, and what you want. Whatever's wrong— it's from before you got together, right?" Jaime nodded. "Well, you've grown beyond it, haven't you?"

"Yeah." Jaime wasn't so sure the past could just be brushed off like that, though. He changed the subject. "What do you guys have planned for the day?"

"I expect we'll all be in different corners of the house not talking to each other," Tyrion said.

 _"We're_ going to be looking some stuff up," Tysha said.

Tyrion gave a little strained half-smile. "One term left, then break, then I'm out of here."

Jaime had a feeling it was only going to get more unbearable here in the coming months. "Come live with me for break," Jaime offered. "If it doesn't get any better here." He knew it wouldn't.

"I may take you up on that," Tyrion said.

"You should," Tysha said. "Don't spend any more time here than you have to. We'll be back together— even if we don't end up at the same school, we'll be close to each other."

"Wherever you end up, I'll go," Tyrion said, resting a closed fist against her leg. She put her hand over his.

Jaime left them like that. If he had the chance, if that's how it ended up, he knew he'd follow Arthur, too. If Arthur would let him.

He found Arthur putting something together in the kitchen— he'd started a bag of stuff to bring with them. After Jaime looked through it to see what was already there, he went looking for anything else that might be helpful. Flashlights. Those would be good. Using their phones would drain the batteries too quickly to be any real use, but the flashlights they had used to explore as kids had to still be around somewhere.

One of them had been under the bathroom sink at one point, though Jaime couldn't remember why— it wasn’t there anymore. If there was a blackout, where would they be? Pondering on that didn't help, but there was a toolkit in the hall closet, he was pretty sure. Maybe they'd be there.

"Cersei tells me you've come to your senses," came Dad's voice as Jaime passed the door to his office, left ajar.

What had she meant by _that,_ Jaime wondered, but asking wouldn't do him any good. He kept walking, dug through the closet until he found the flashlights, flicked one on— they needed new batteries, too, so he rooted around until he found those.

By the time he started back for the living room, Dad was standing at his office door.

"You've decided to leave all nonsense this behind you," Dad told him. "You won't see _him_ again, you'll get your act together and get your degree, and then you'll come home. You'll take your place here— you'll become who you were born to be."

Jaime shook his head. This wasn't home. He didn't want it. "Send Cersei to law school," he said. "Give Tyrion a chance at— anything."

"They're not enough for this," Dad said. "Cersei's too short-sighted, and Tyrion would only make a mockery of anything he puts his hands to."

"So teach her," Jaime snapped. "And give Tyrion anything. _Anything._ You think I'd be better than either of them? They both have the mind for it— they both want it. I don't, and I'd be shit at it anyway— so why me?"

"You're the one who will carry on this legacy— our name—"

Jaime laughed, despite the emptiness that filled his chest— maybe they'd adopt. Assuming they ever got that far. Arthur would be a good father, but would Jaime ever be better than Dad was? Or was he doomed to repeat it, what he knew, passing the same hurts down through generations, father to son?

"—once you get past this phase of yours."

"It's not a phase. I told you— I love him." He did— he loved Arthur so much that he felt like an idiot for it. They weren't even dating. Technically, they weren't even talking. "I'm not who you want me to be— I never will be. Why can't you see that? See any of us for who we are?"

Dad looked up at him, eyes piercing deep. "You're right," he said, and returned to his desk. Nope, Dad never said anyone else was right, nothing good was coming next— "You're not what I thought you were. You're not my son."

What else should he have expected? It still hurt, in a distant, dazed kind of way. Jaime forced a wavering smile. "We'll be gone in the morning." His heart had gone away — somewhere else, somewhere far away — and he wasn't sure how he was moving himself out of the room.

"See that you are," Dad said, not looking up.

Jaime slipped back into his room again— not ready to be around anyone else quite yet. Why had he tried? Why had there been even a glimmer of expectation of anything different?

Not good enough, not smart enough, not ambitious enough, not _straight_ enough— never enough.

He threw the flashlights down on the bed. No, not thinking about this now. No— it was far away. It was words. Words were just words, and if he could just do something _useful—_

Arthur would be cold. Some of the tunnels funneled wind, and he could swear that made it faster— He grabbed a spare blanket, and the red scarf, held both to his chest for a moment before slowly going back upstairs. He tucked the blanket into the bag Arthur was making up, and when they were next to each other, almost dove into his arms again. Arthur looked at him, and his lips parted and closed again as if he wanted to say something, but then he sighed and placed his fingertips against the back of Jaime's hand.

Jaime smiled shakily and shrugged the touch away, so he could loop the scarf around Arthur's neck again. Arthur pressed his cheek into Jaime's hand as he moved, or was that just his imagination?

Who even knew anymore?

It was a few minutes' walk up the road, and then a few more off the road there was an old guard's outpost set into the ground. The castle was partly built _into_ the mountain — rooms clustered beneath the surface, all connected by tunnels. The nicest parts, where the lords must have lived, were up top where there was the most light. Underneath, it spiraled down through stone to servants' quarters and work areas, mine shafts and the big cavern down at water level that had once housed the docks. And the huge wing that was the most mysterious, ancient siege doors still intact and standing strong. One last defense, if the castle was ever breached, not that it had been, to Jaime's knowledge. Researchers had gotten in and out somehow, but otherwise it was still sealed off to the rest of the world.

But no one had ever bothered to seal this entrance to the castle properly, even after that unfortunate girl fell. It was so out of the way down here — their house was about the only thing down this stretch of road. Who would ever come all the way out here to explore?

Jaime had.

The guardpost's door had long since rotted away and been replaced by a metal grate padlocked shut. But Tyrion had picked it once, and they'd left it hanging on the latch. No one had ever put it back, even though it had been _years_.

These tunnels were much as Jaime remembered, too— nondescript stone, uniform enough, but out here they hadn't put the most effort into making it smooth and nice, not like in the higher rooms. At points where the tunnels branched — that one was caved in, Jaime remembered, best not to go that way — symbols were etched into the stone, but their meanings had been lost to time. In other places, graffiti — more recent — carved or sprayed into the walls.

Somewhere around here, Jaime had scribbled his own name in Sharpie, but it was so long ago he didn't think he'd be able to find it again. Cersei had put hers right next to it, anyway, and he didn't really want to see that. Didn't want any reminder.

They eventually emerged into the cavernous central hall, with staircases swirling up around the outer edges of the room. The metal frame of a fallen chandelier lay in the middle. Huge, likely still there because of the hassle of moving it, but any glass or crystal that had once been on it was long since picked away. Arthur shone his flashlight out over it—

"The view's better from higher up," Jaime told him. "And the interesting stuff is up that way, anyway."

Arthur nodded, and started for the stairs. Then Jaime remembered—

He caught Arthur's arm. "Be careful around here," he said, gesturing with his flashlight. He should stay close to the wall. "Someone fell, when we were kids. Not like there are railings, or anything." One of Cersei's friends, but it was so long ago Jaime couldn't even remember her name.

Halfway up, Arthur cast his light out again. Jaime'd never had a great concept of the scale of the place when he was younger — too busy running around to discover new things, rather than taking the time to really look into the darkness. It was huge, and empty— so much space that Jaime had never paid attention to.

"Do you think this is where they would have feasts?" Jaime wondered. How many people could you even fit in here?

Arthur shrugged, and directed the light further. Anything that was still down here was junk — everything authentic had been ruined by time, or taken away to a museum, or else looted. Fragments of things every so often. Crumbling stone. Trash left behind by other explorers.

Empty. Empty of anything meaningful, anyway.

A detour through some of the nicer halls — everything smooth here. You could see the paths where people had once walked most, wear from hundreds of years of feet striding across the stone. And the walls weren't plain and rough here— scenes and borders carved with a fine hand. Arthur skimmed his fingers over it as they walked, feeling the lines and ridges in the stone— turning his light up to the ceiling to see yet more carvings up there, dusted all over with cobwebs.

They had a quiet lunch in one of the rooms with the most light — maybe this had been one of the lord's rooms, back then. It looked out over the water — the sunsets would be beautiful, there.

Arthur looked out over the water, too. What was he thinking? Jaime couldn't tell. There were some things he knew well enough — he'd learned to recognize anger, in all of its shades. Impatience, frustration, fury, hatred— indifference, apathy, disappointment. Bitterness. The desolate landscape of a life lived with no room for tenderness or sentimentality.

Whatever was playing across Arthur's face wasn't so straightforward.

Arthur was fond of him, at least, that much Jaime was certain. He was still here, and he _said_ it was enough to want to work through all of this, but how long would that last? How far before he found disappointment in all the things Jaime was lacking? When would he stop wanting to stay?

There was so much Jaime couldn't read— expressions flittering across Arthur's face in the space of a heartbeat, the way he moved, the way he touched. Arthur wanted to be close. He wanted to touch. He wasn't disgusted— not disgusted as he had been, anyway.

Did that even mean anything?

Just touching didn't mean that he felt anything. And _not disgusted_ wasn't exactly a declaration of love.

Jaime shook the thought away — tried to, anyway. What was it Arthur had asked? What would it take to not feel like this?

Where did you even begin thinking about something like that? What was it _like_ to not feel like this? That handful of hours spent in Arthur's arms, when Jaime had been certain that this was love, and he could have it forever— could that come back? Would he ever be that certain again?

He looked over at Arthur again— he was still looking out over the water. What would it take to feel that again? What would he need?

How the hell was he supposed to know? He'd never thought about it before. No one had ever _asked_ it before.

Jaime barely felt it through his coat and all the layers, but he thought Arthur touched him as they left — hand at his back. He didn't look. What if it _was_ only his imagination, if everything he wanted shattered apart with that one glance?

The Sept, when they found it, was as Jaime remembered it. Hundreds of years ago, the ceiling had been a massive skylight of stained glass— the seven pointed star in its center, radiating out to each corner of the room. Each of the gods depicted above their altar, and on sunny days the light would paint the tiled floor with their images. This was one of the other places in the castle that had natural light, especially now that the glass was long gone. It was a shame — Tyrion had once shown him a drawing of what it had looked like from one of the history books he liked so much. Now, when they looked up, there was only the grey sky.

Mostly, the altars and statues were still there, not looted like the rest of the castle. It was all carved into the stone, though crumbling. The Father's outstretched arms were broken, and the Mother's face had worn away. The Stranger, opposite them, had likely only grown eerier over the ages, weathered and stained by years of neglect. Arthur knelt in front of it, and Jaime followed.

Arthur pulled something from his pockets — candles — and lit one. He held it so the wax dripped on the stone, and used it to anchor the candle upright, then repeated it with the other, and held out a third for Jaime. For Mom. He'd thought of this?

He studied it as he took it, felt it for a moment. It wasn't perfectly smooth — had Arthur made these himself? You were supposed to, traditionally, but _no one_ did that anymore. Was he really that religious, or was it extra respect for the dead, or one of those things where he drew comfort from tradition?

This had taken planning, and Jaime had been on his mind even then.

He had to shut his eyes for a moment and take a few deep breaths to settle the feeling rising through his throat. It wasn't something he recognized, exactly, but it left him feeling like a child, kneeling here on cracked stone tiles and trying not to be swallowed by whatever had just opened up inside him. Another shaky breath. The flame flickered as he lit the candle and anchored it before the Stranger, and then he squeezed his eyes shut again.

This probably wasn't what Arthur meant when he said you felt something or you didn't— Jaime felt _something,_ but it wasn't piety. He still didn't know what happened to the soul, or if Mom was still out there somewhere, or if he'd already landed himself a spot in one of the seven hells. He'd never been very concerned about the afterlife. He could barely think about this life and everything wrong with it. Everything else— it was just a fantasy of something better, wasn't it? A sculpture built of sugar and dreams, one that would melt away the first time it rained. Hardly worth thinking about.

But Arthur was different. It had stormed, and he was still here.

Jaime peeked over at him, still kneeling before the Stranger's altar as if he felt no pain. Jaime's knees had long since begun to ache, but Arthur was still as stone himself. Eyes shut— peaceful.

But, given enough time, even water could wash away stone.

After the candles had burned down to stubs, they left, and Jaime looked into the faces of each of the gods. _Father, Warrior, Smith, Mother, Maiden, Crone. Stranger._ They were gods, but each of them damaged by the storms of time.

Jaime was no god.

Arthur touched him again as they left, at the elbow, more firmly this time. Jaime turned to look. He was still there.

"The sun will set soon," Jaime said, managing a smile. "Want to go watch it, down by the water?" Arthur liked the sound of the waves, he remembered.

Arthur nodded, and they went. A long, winding ramp took them there — it must have been hell to get goods up to the castle from the docks, back in the day. But the lords and the ones who had designed it probably weren't the ones who had to ferry things up and down, so maybe it suited their purposes just fine.

They emerged into a cavern down by the water, open to the outside air like a mouth stretched open in a roar. The docks had been here, in another age. A huge area— the best place to hear the water, and the view of Lannisport was nice here, too. The setting sun painted the sky with the colors of fire, but the black of night crept down from above. As they watched, it became the view Jaime liked most to see— the city's skyline, lit up by light and life.

Arthur sat down as the stars began to peek out. "Do you want to stay here a while?" Jaime asked, quietly, digging the blanket out of the bag. Arthur nodded. "Until midnight?" Arthur nodded again.

Jaime draped the blanket over Arthur's shoulders and moved to sit nearby. They had been closer today but still— no matter how much he wanted to be near, he didn't want to be clingy, unless— Arthur snagged his hand. He hadn't pulled the blanket closed around himself yet, and he tugged at Jaime gently.

 _Yes— Good—_ It was kinda embarrassing how little Jaime hesitated before sitting down with him. Arthur undid his coat and pulled Jaime close, his back against Arthur's chest, Arthur's arms wrapped around his waist, holding him. Jaime shut his eyes— his breath came easier than it had all day. Arthur wouldn't want to be this close to Jaime if he was still freaked out, right? Not even if he was cold?

Arthur tapped him on the chest and handed him the edges of the blanket— right. Jaime pulled it closed around them, Arthur squeezed him, they both sighed. Arthur wasn't _tense_ or anything. He wanted this— he must.

This would be so much easier when they could actually talk — well, Jaime _could_ talk now, but endless strings of yes-or-no questions sounded like a miserable way to spend the evening. Midnight was a few hours away— not long, in the grand scheme of things. Wouldn't it be better to just enjoy? Enjoy the affection Arthur was giving him now?

There was no guarantee Arthur would still want him, after they spoke. Jaime was pretty sure — there'd been no words all day, and he was trying to pay attention to more than that. Arthur seemed like he was warming— he hadn't been pushing Jaime away. But there was still more to come, more to talk about, and what if Jaime asked for too much or couldn't give enough or just— just wasn't enough for Arthur to want to get over this? To really want to get over this?

But if this was about to end, then props to this weird archaic religious tradition — one that was important to Arthur, but _still_ — for giving him one more day.

He shivered, but not from the cold, and Arthur squeezed him closer, resting his face against Jaime's shoulder. Jaime felt something rising in him again— he wanted to believe this. He wanted to let himself feel the growing hope, wanted to feed it, wanted to bring it to life, but still—

His fingers found Arthur's.

What did he _need?_ He was still no closer to discovering it. He _needed_ Arthur to never leave, but that wasn't something he could ask for. He _needed_ all of this to go away, but that was impossible.

He sighed heavily, and so did Arthur behind him. This wasn't going to be easy. He didn't _know—_ This was never going to be easy.

An alarm on Arthur's phone went off at midnight and Jaime let out the breath he had been holding— unsure if he should feel relieved or terrified of what might happen. His lungs had frozen up again— what did Arthur want, what had he been thinking all day—

All day he had been dying to speak, but now he could not.

"Happy new year," Arthur said quietly.

"Happy new year," Jaime answered. He pulled away from Arthur— he needed to see his face.

Only the sliver of moon and the backlight of Arthur's phone, sitting next to them on the stone, illuminated his face — Jaime couldn't quite make out his expression. But he couldn't see anger, couldn't see tension.

"What are you thinking?" Jaime asked.

"I want to know what I can do," Arthur said. "What we can do. We both want this, right?"

Jaime nodded quickly— Arthur wanted this. _Yes_ , he wanted this.

"What do you need from me?" Arthur asked, quietly.

Jaime didn't have an answer. "I don't know," he said. _"Need_ is a difficult question. I don't think I would know a healthy relationship if it hit me in the face— or, I guess a healthy relationship shouldn't do that, actually."

Arthur's body tensed up against his. "Maybe this isn't what you need right now."

 _No—_ "You said you wouldn't leave—" Had that come out as petulantly as Jaime felt? His heart was running away from him, blood rushing through his ears, heat rising through his face at the same time as a cold wave crashed down over him, the sensations mixing until his stomach turned—

"That's not what I'm saying—" Arthur rushed to say. "If you need to focus on yourself, I'll wait for you. If you need time, if you need space— I'll wait, if that's what you want."

"Why the fuck would I want that? I mean—"

"It might be easier, to not have to worry about me."

"No— No, that's not what I want _." No, no, no, no, no—_ "That wouldn't make me stop worrying, it would—" It would be worse. It would be so much worse.

"Okay, forget I mentioned it," Arthur said. His hand came up, fingers fluttered against Jaime's cheek for a moment before caressing— Jaime leaned into the gentle touch and Arthur's hand stroked back over his face, through his hair. "I'm not the only person who cares for you— I'm definitely not the only person capable of it. I know you don't get close to people easily, but I can't be the only person you rely on."

What else was there?

"It's not that I can't or don't want to be supportive," Arthur continued. "I don't want you to feel trapped."

"I don't understand," Jaime said, the words falling from him robotically while his head continued to spin.

"Not intentionally. I don't want you to hide things from me because you don't want to upset me, or you think I might leave. I don't intend to. And if you get mad at me and need to talk it through with someone, you should have that."

Were you supposed to talk about that kind of thing? Jaime never had. Jaime'd never talked much about anything deeper than the surface. "I have Tyrion."

"I'm not saying you have to make friends with the entire world, but— I have my sisters. I have Rhaegar."

Was Jaime on that list by implication, or had he purposefully been left off? "What exactly does Rhaegar do for you?" he asked instead. He couldn't complain about that, exactly. That particular facet of insecurity had fallen into the background over the past couple of days, but it was still buried there.

Arthur hesitated, a sharp intake of breath. "We've just known each other for so long— I barely have to say anything, and he knows." Jaime nodded. Another thing he couldn't compare to, couldn't compete with. But Arthur said, with a hint of a laugh— "he knew how I felt for you way before I figured it out." More seriously, he continued, in words almost carried away by the wind, "He never stood up for me. When his father was saying all his shit— he let it happen. He never said anything."

Something stirred in Jaime's chest, and their hands tangled together.

"He's just a friend now. I know it's an unusual situation, that we're still living together— if it makes it any better, he's going to move in with Elia after our lease is up, and I'm trying to figure things out with my sisters." He squeezed Jaime's hand. "Don't doubt how I feel for you. You're important to me— so much. I don't know if I can tell you how much."

Jaime nodded, but it didn't reassure him as much as he'd hoped. "Is this— all of this— going to be something that eats away at you inside?" Maybe Arthur thought he could deal with it now, but in time it would only fester, turning everything good into snappishness and resentment and the slow, painful death of something that had once been beautiful.

"No," Arthur said. "I think I'm past the worst of it. It's just—" he paused. "Your family's... not healthy for you." he stopped and started again. "I want to help you, but there's only so much I can do on my own, and I don't want them to come between us. I don't think they'll ever stop trying."

"I think I got disowned today," Jaime said. "Dad'll stop trying at least."

Arthur moved to hold Jaime a little closer. "Yeah, I heard that," he said. "Didn't know how much you wanted me to know, but— I'm sorry. But I'm not so sure that means he's done."

"Why wouldn't he be?"

"He thinks you'll come back. He thinks— He thinks you need him more than you want me, and you'll come to your senses one of these days." Arthur drew a shaky breath. "I can't pretend that doesn't scare the hell out of me, too."

"No—" Jaime said. "No. I don't need him." Huh. "I don't need him," he said again. It was weird, saying it. Maybe it was even true— it made him feel a little lighter, anyway.

"And Cersei— if nothing else, she's made it clear this is some kind of competition, to her, and I don't think she's going to stop trying, either."

He was right about that one— Cersei wasn't one to give up on anything. "It's not a competition — that's all in the past." But Cersei wasn't really part of his life anymore anyway — they'd gone the entire year without seeing or speaking to each other. "Don't doubt how I feel for you, either." Boundaries. He let out a sigh. Probably a good idea. "They won't get between us— neither of them will." Maybe it would be easier once they were back in King's Landing, once there was more distance.

"I know they'll always be important— they're family, but—" Arthur stopped. "I don't want them to hurt you. Or us."

 _Us._ "I know," Jaime said. He sighed. "They're where I came from, but that's not all I am. That's not who I'll be."

"I know," Arthur said, too, softly. "I think I've always known that."

 _When I look to the future, I see you._ Jaime didn't say it. "I'm not going back," he said instead. "You're too important to me— I'm not going to let anything get in the way of that."

Arthur took a deep breath and dipped his head. "Thank you," he said. "I needed to hear that. Will you believe me?" he asked. "I'm not going to leave. There's nothing you could do that would make me want to stop trying."

Relief washed over him— the dread coiled up inside was fading, and the future looked hopeful. A grin was starting to twitch at the corners of his mouth— "So, am I your boyfriend now?"

"What?" Arthur sounded surprised.

Oh fuck, another thing Jaime misread _— Stupid—_ "You said _us_ , and—" Jaime's voice grew weaker with each word.

"I didn't mean it like that— I just thought we were already."

"Oh," Jaime breathed. He curled himself up against Arthur's side, both felt and heard him laugh as Jaime wriggled back into his arms. This close, under the dim light, Jaime could sort of make out his smile, the starlight reflecting in his eyes.

"It's a little late, but—" Arthur closed the space between them and kissed him, gently, quickly, on the lips. Thank the gods— all of them, even the weird foreign ones. "Supposed to start the new year with something sweet," he said, his words hesitant, almost bashful.

If only Jaime could see just a little more through the darkness— He'd never seen Arthur blush before, but right now he might be close. "I think that's the corniest thing I've ever heard you say."

"Is that a complaint?"

"Yeah— not sweet enough." Jaime leaned back in. "You'll have to try again."

"And you call _me_ corny," Arthur complained, but he brought them together in another kiss. Close, calm, steady— wrapped up in each other's arms, lips hot against the cold night air.

They could do this, Jaime told himself, resting his head on Arthur's shoulder. Maybe he could have this— maybe forever.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter took me longer than I wanted it to, sorry-- we're almost done, though! Thank you so much for sticking with me!
> 
> I've marked this as a series because I have a couple ideas for follow-ups that will hopefully _actually_ be one-shots... (this whole story was originally supposed to be a one-shot...)


	9. Epilogue

Jaime's alarm went off at 3 am, buzzing next to him on the pillow. He had been sleeping lightly— the vibration was enough to wake him up. He had been planning on this.

Arthur didn't like to leave Allyria home alone overnight, so he didn't sleep over at Jaime's often— only when Ashara was in town and not staying over at her boyfriend's. He also didn't like to make noise when Allyria was in the apartment, and not being able to moan for him was starting to drive Jaime crazy.

But all of the Daynes were heavy sleepers, and it wasn't like Jaime was going to go out of his way to be loud— just, choking back every moan and softening every sigh was stifling him.

It took a few minutes to shake Arthur awake. "What?" he asked groggily, rolling over and rubbing his eyes.

"Happy anniversary," Jaime said, slowly running his hand down into Arthur's pants.

"Did you wake me up for sex?" Arthur asked, in his stern teacher voice. But his breath hitched as Jaime stroked him to hardness, and Jaime liked his teacher voice, anyway.

"I want to make some noise for you," Jaime said, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his throat and drawing out a contented hum.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Three," Jaime answered. "We won't wake her."

Arthur grumbled, but it turned into a yawn.

"You can sleep in as late as you want," Jaime promised. "We don't have to be anywhere until the afternoon."

"If you wake me up before ten, I'll be very upset," Arthur said, reaching for him. His hands slipped up under Jaime's shirt — if Jaime had thought this through more he would have gotten rid of it already, for efficiency's sake.

But then again, Arthur liked to undress him— Arthur kissed and licked up his stomach, up his chest as the skin was revealed. Nope. No regrets in his decision-making.

After Arthur pulled his shirt off, he held Jaime to his chest — letting out a long, contented sigh — and kissed him. It started out gentle — Arthur must still be half-asleep — but Jaime nipped at his lips, sending a jolt through him. His grip on Jaime tightened— Jaime ground his body down against him. Arthur's cock was definitely awake and ready, and the rest of him followed as he grew more heated. Deepening their kiss, turning them so his body pressed Jaime down into the mattress— his hands couldn't decide where to settle, stroking over Jaime's cheek, groping down his chest, squeezing his ass and pulling their bodies together more roughly.

Jaime was a little trembly, turning to putty at Arthur's hands.

"How do you want to do this?" he asked, a breathy whisper against Jaime's ear.

"Please fuck me," Jaime groaned. "I want to feel you, I want to be full of you—"

Arthur cut him off with another kiss. "Gladly," he said, and leaned over the fumble through the nightstand drawer for lube. Jaime kissed down his chest while he was over there, which probably wasn't helping him find it at all, but it was fun to see how much he could distract him. He licked Arthur's nipple, testing it with his teeth and feeling it harden against his mouth— Arthur paused for a shaky breath. Jaime smiled. Sometimes, this was too easy.

"Distracted?" Jaime asked, arching his body up against Arthur's, feeling his hard cock pressing against his stomach, grinding against him. Arthur pressed back for a moment, breath short—

"Only a little," he said through a shaky, breathy laugh that Jaime felt fluttering through his chest.

Jaime bit just a little harder, earning a sharper breath. "Shame— I'll have to try harder." He moved down lower, running his tongue over Arthur's abs— Arthur squirmed against him. Teeth grazed over Arthur's hipbone, pulling a noise from his throat, and Jaime tugged his pants down to trail fingers up the inside of Arthur's thigh, then wrapped his hand around Arthur's cock properly— Arthur groaned and pressed forward, and Jaime eagerly put his mouth to it, licking the tip as he ran his hand over the length—

"Slower," Arthur gasped. Jaime whined, and Arthur laughed with what little breath he had— "You woke me up for this— shouldn't we make the most of it? I want to enjoy you, as long as I can." He finished rummaging through the nightstand, sat back, and dragged Jaime up to meet his mouth. Firm and slow, parted lips giving just a taste of what lay ahead. "Anticipation makes it sweeter, don't you think?"

Jaime groaned, frustrated— he hated that he couldn't  _ disagree.  _ It was so worth it once they finally got there, but in the meantime he felt like he might explode from the tension. Why did Arthur have to be so good at delayed gratification?

Smiling like he would be content to draw this out until the dawn, Arthur gave his chest a gentle push, and Jaime laid himself back, letting Arthur admire and run firm, deliberate hands down Jaime's chest. Fingertips curled over Jaime's pecs as they passed, squeezed Jaime around the waist as they crawled their way down, down. He traced the line of Jaime's hips so lightly that it tickled and Jaime pressed up, trying to get more contact—

But Arthur grabbed him by the hips and pushed him back down, meeting his eyes steadily, then bent his head down to kiss Jaime's cock— aching for  _ more  _ through one too many layers of fabric. Jaime tried to push his hips up again, but couldn't— Arthur's hands holding him tightly, stilling him.

"Not yet," he whispered.

There were moments like this sometimes, when the realization surfaced in the front of Jaime's mind— just how strong Arthur was. If Jaime  _ really _ tried, he might be able to, but it was a close thing. He shivered, his skin prickling, needing Arthur's touch to calm him, and at that moment Arthur turned him over onto his front and knelt above him, rubbing his hands all over Jaime's back — Jaime arched up into his hands as he went, humming deep in his throat, pleased. Arthur let him, this time. He kneaded fingers into Jaime's shoulders, ran his hands down Jaime's arms, kissed down his spine. He had done this their first time, too— making sure Jaime was relaxed before he'd even started loosening him up to be fucked. 

That memory stirred him even more— did Arthur intend for his touch to stoke the fire spreading through Jaime's veins? He ground down against the mattress— and heard Arthur's breath of laughter, felt Arthur's lips against his shoulders, kissing a line across them. Definitely intentional.

"Impatient," Arthur murmured, finally tugging away Jaime's underwear.

Was he going to start now? "How are you  _ not?" _ He squirmed— he wanted to  _ feel _ him, get more contact,  _ anything— _

Arthur lowered himself down and ground against Jaime's ass— nothing between them anymore as the length of him, hard and hot, pressed and rubbed against him— Jaime's breath stopped. Knowing,  _ feeling _ how much Arthur wanted him, hearing the gasp he tried to suppress—

"Trying to hide how much you want me?" Jaime asked, grinding up against him harder.

With a muffled groan, Arthur drew away. "Not trying to hide anything— I just like the way you look at me when I get you worked up like this."

Jaime twisted to look back at him.  _ How  _ did he look?

"Yeah, like that," Arthur said, tracing his fingers over Jaime's cheek, brushing his thumb over Jaime's parted lips.

"You just like knowing that I want you," Jaime grumbled.

"Got a problem with that?"

"Yeah—" Jaime tried to push back into him again, but Arthur retreated, letting Jaime just barely brush against him— "It's keeping you from fucking me."

"I will," Arthur assured him. "Just not yet."

"I am so getting back at you for this one day," Jaime said. "When you're least expecting it— I'm gonna make  _ you _ wait—"

Arthur's lips on his neck made all the words leave his head. "I'm looking forward to it," Arthur murmured into his ear, leaving him squirming.

His hands continued their progression down Jaime's body, groping and massaging at his ass again, kneading into the muscles of his thighs, lingering, stroking there— Jaime squirmed as his fingers crept higher against his inner thigh— Arthur was getting so, so close to what he wanted— just a bit further—

But his hands came away again. The noise that the from Jaime's throat was half a growl, and he looked back again— Arthur liked the way Jaime looked at him? Jaime tried to channel all the heat crawling under his skin— the straining of his cock, needing to be touched— the deeper ache throbbing down there— the need to be full of Arthur, for their bodies to be joined, to feel ecstacy and know Arthur felt the same with every movement—

"Perfect," Arthur murmured, stroking his hands through Jaime's hair, kissing the corner of his mouth.

When his hands left this time, Jaime heard the click of the cap as he started getting himself ready—  _ finally.  _ He shivered in anticipation, but Arthur was taking his time, pausing to let the lube warm in his hands.  _ Arthur _ was the one sensitive to temperature — the  _ noises _ he made when Jaime blew him between mouthfuls of hot tea were incredible — but Jaime didn't care so much. He whined impatiently—

"Just a sec—" Arthur whispered, and it was only a moment before slick fingers were rubbing against Jaime's hole — he moaned and pressed back against them.

"So impatient," Arthur said. "I want to savor every bit of you."

"So do I— only a little faster," Jaime answered, and heard Arthur's laugh.

The tip of a finger pressed into him, just a bit sooner than he had expected, he gasped — Arthur's other hand took him by the jaw and turned his head to the side, to see his face in profile.

"Beautiful," he whispered, pushing deeper.

Jaime didn't quite succeed holding back a whimper— Arthur kissed the corner of his mouth, working the finger inside him, adding another— Jaime pushed back against him, taking him further— Arthur worked his fingers in and out, rubbing inside of him, angling them down to brush where he was most sensitive— he moaned as Arthur rubbed there, just a moment, before taking his hand away.

He heard Arthur moving behind him again, and he didn't pause this time before pressing the head of his cock in, slowly.

More— Jaime wanted to feel  _ more _ — but again Arthur wouldn't let him press back, holding his hips still.

"I said I want to watch you— I don't want to miss a thing— you make such wonderful faces—" he pressed a little deeper— Jaime squirmed trying to get closer— he was almost—

Another shift in Arthur's hips, and the head of his cock bumped that sensitive spot again— his mouth fell open with the force of the wave crashing over him, leaving him shaking with the force of it— the noise he made was completely undignified, completely uncontrolled—

"Like that one— I swear every time you forget a little, what it feels like—" shallow strokes rubbed his cock over it, again and again— "You look so overwhelmed, like you can't believe what's happening—"

"Sometimes I still can't believe that I have you," Jaime gasped. He felt himself falling apart, every awareness leaving him except for where Arthur touched him.

Arthur lowered his body over Jaime's— "You have me," he said as he pushed all the way in _ — hot, full _ — kisses to his cheek, the back of his neck— not all of his weight pressing down on Jaime, but enough that it was weirdly calming— safe, secure in Arthur's arms.

When he rolled them over onto their sides, arms wrapped around Jaime, holding him tight and close— 

Arthur knew, usually, when Jaime needed this— the length of their bodies pressed together and tangled up in each other. Arthur touching every part of him, surrounding him. Held close and cherished— He felt so loved. Jaime was certain—

Jaime was almost certain.

He started to move again, and Jaime easily pushed the thought away. He groaned, rolled his body against Arthur's, felt his grip tighten, his breath growing sharper—

"I love the way you feel, I love the way you respond to me—"

Arthur used the word  _ love _ a lot, but he hadn't said it in the way Jaime wanted yet.  _ I love you _ . Jaime focused on it, each time he said it—  _ Love, love, love— _ clinging to Arthur as their bodies moved together.

His hand, still slick with lube, moved down to take hold of Jaime's straining cock— Jaime writhed at the touch, almost too much sensation, all at once— he didn't know which way to move. Forward into Arthur's hand? Back onto his cock? He didn't— he couldn't—

One long, smooth stroke of Arthur's hand — Jaime's head tipped back with a whimper, biting back words — and then he matched it to the pace of his hips.  _ I love you, I love you, I love you _ , Jaime wanted to babble— The words fought to get out of him, but he didn't know—

He let out a wordless moan instead as he shuddered and came in Arthur's hand. Arthur was squeezing him tight, kissing him along his neck and shoulders, and whispering words of praise that Jaime couldn't string together right at this moment. He had taken Jaime by the hip now, pulling him back to meet him in his last strokes. Jaime pressed back against him — Arthur liked to be deep, deep inside him when he came —

Arthur's arms wrapped around him tight, and he pressed his face into Jaime's shoulder, and buried his cock deep— he moaned, long and deep, and Jaime felt it as much as heard, as he tensed and tightened— When all of that tension released, he buried Jaime in kisses wherever his mouth could reach, between heavy breaths.

When their bodies parted, Jaime turned over to kiss him properly, to look at him. Arthur's slow smile, half-lidded eyes— lazy kisses and relaxed limbs. The way Arthur looked at him, the softness in his eyes that Jaime was too afraid to label.

After they'd laid there a moment, basking in each other, in the afterglow, Arthur sat up with a groan and got out of bed. "Gonna go get cleaned up," he said. "Be right back." He slipped on the robe he owned solely for this purpose — he always shed it again once he returned. Jaime had no complaints about that — his touch was addictive, and it was so much better with nothing between them.

Jaime laid his head down, blinking slowly. He was heavy and sluggish and didn't want to move, so long as Arthur came back— he did, in just a moment, and threw the robe at Jaime.

"Don't wanna move," Jaime complained, but he dragged himself out of bed to go wash up as Arthur darted back under the covers.

When he came back to bed, Arthur curled up against him, burying his face in the crook of Jaime's neck, clumsily kissing his collarbone— Jaime pulled him tight against his chest, and Arthur made a tiny, satisfied hum against his skin.

"Much as I'd like to keep you up all night—" Jaime trailed off. It was a good thing Arthur couldn’t see his face right now, because he was wearing a completely stupid grin.

"I know you don't actually wanna move and I sure as hell don't either," Arthur said, muffled, into Jaime's shoulder.

Fair enough. "I guess this'll have to do, then." Jaime stroked Arthur's hair, and he squirmed closer.

"I can live with that."

Arthur started to still, and his breathing was slowing and body relaxing. Good— he was getting back to sleep. He loved the feel of Arthur in his arms, and gave his fingers one last stroke through Arthur's hair before settling his arms around him. Arthur nuzzled his face against Jaime's shoulder in response, and sighed, and—

"Love you," Arthur mumbled, and Jaime jolted awake. 

His breath stopped a moment, and his heart fluttered, and warmth flooded him again. "I love you, too," Jaime said. His lips turned up in a smile he wouldn't have been able to fight down even if he wanted to.

But Arthur didn't say anything.

His breathing was slow and even, and he didn't respond when Jaime shifted around, trying to catch a glimpse of his face. Eyes closed. Asleep.

Had he meant it? Did he even know he'd said it? Or was he sleep-talking, caught up in a dream?

Disappointment sank through him, down to his bones. But he kissed Arthur on the temple before settling back down. Maybe he meant it. Dreams were built by the subconscious, right? All the things you might not express in your waking hours. That Arthur felt strongly enough to say it in his sleep—

It might not mean anything. There were all kinds of wacky stories out there on the internet, things people said in their sleep that made zero sense. But Arthur wasn't a sleep-talker— had he just been drifting off when he said it? Would he remember in the morning?

Jaime stretched, getting comfortable. He could ask, probably. Tomorrow. If he was feeling brave enough.

Was it actually healthy? He wondered sometimes. He still couldn't define it in words, what was  _ healthy _ and what wasn't— if this was too fast, if Arthur would freak out. But this felt  _ right, _ and Jaime had known he was in love the very first day.

With every day that passed since, he'd only grown more certain.

This year had been the best of Jaime's life, but there were still pieces of it that felt fragile. Arthur tried not to show it, but he still got pretty tense whenever Jaime got a text from Dad or Cersei, and they'd been doing that a lot ever since Jaime decided he wasn't going back for the holidays this year. Home was where you made it, and that wasn't Casterly Rock anymore.

Home was starting to be wherever Arthur was.

That was a thought. Wonderful and terrifying in equal measure.  _ Home _ had never been a peaceful place, but now it was different. Peace, care, touch, and how much Arthur  _ believed _ in him— he'd never had that before.

This wasn't something so fragile that he might break it with clumsy hands, but it was something so precious that Jaime was terrified, all the same.

He was certain— almost certain— not quite certain enough.

"I love you," he said again to the night. Maybe he would still be able to say it in the light of day.

* * *

 

Jaime woke slowly the next morning— it was cloudy, and everything was dim and grey. It was always difficult to drag himself out of bed on days like this, especially when Arthur was curled up against him, still naked and warm. Jaime squeezed his eyes shut —  _ I love you  _ — and rolled over to check his phone. Nine, not time to wake him yet.

Jaime usually loved mornings like this — when he woke a little before Arthur and had uninterrupted time to lie in bed with him. Arthur wasn't one to lie around for long in the mornings, and sometimes Jaime just wanted a lazy weekend — but today he didn't think he could lie still.

He needed to just not think for a while.

He stretched. Breakfast. That was an idea. Jaime darted out of bed just long enough to put on sweatpants and hoodie, then crawled back under the covers to warm back up. Arthur made breakfast for him sometimes on the weekends, when he woke up first. Yeah. That would be a good thing to do for him. Jaime could do it— he'd learned to cook, like, three things consistently well.

He slipped out again once he felt more like a human being, put on his hand, and quietly stepped out into the living room.

Allyria had some show about animals quietly playing on TV, but she was flipping through what looked like a textbook and paying half attention to both. "I made coffee," she said, looking up. She frowned. "Arthur's not awake yet?"

"I'm letting him sleep in today," Jaime said.

"He never—" She thought about it a moment. "Oh, gross," she said, wrinkling her nose. "I did not need to think about that."

"Hey, I didn't say anything," Jaime said. He fixed himself a cup of coffee and leaned up against the back of the couch. "Have you eaten?"

She shook her head. "Not really."

"Want waffles?"

"Have I ever said no to waffles?" she asked, snapping the book shut. World history.

"It's vacation, you know," Jaime said, nodding at it. "You're supposed to be taking a break from all that."

"It's interesting," she argued, helping him dig everything out of the fridge and cupboards. "There's so much in there they just don't teach us— we learn  _ everything _ about the Andals and Valyrians, but all they say about the Rhoynar is the migration, and a little about the wars, but that's covered in Valyria anyway. And anything east of that might as well not even exist."

Jaime nodded and let her keep talking— he honestly didn't remember a ton from any history class he'd taken. Measuring, mixing things together—

_ "This _ is how people end up thinking Asshai was built by aliens who eat their own children—"

Jaime pressed his lips together to keep from laughing at her. He'd heard bits of similar rants at other times, from Ashara and sometimes from Arthur, but she'd probably hate it if he pointed that out. She wrangled the waffle iron out of the back of the cupboard, where it somehow always ended up, and he left the bowl of batter for her while he got started on eggs.

When Arthur appeared from his room, messily dressed, his shoulders settled down when he saw Jaime. "There you are," he said, coming over to kiss Jaime good morning.

Allyria determinedly focused herself on removing a waffle from the iron.

"Here I am?"

"You're usually there when I wake up." His arms wrapped around Jaime from behind. "Can I help with anything?"

"I think we're just about done." Allyria had already lined up waffles on plates and Jaime finished with the last of the eggs.

"Thank you for cooking," Arthur said, giving Jaime and extra squeeze and patting Allyria on the shoulder as he passed. She didn't like hugs at the moment.

Arthur had been looking forward to today's plans for a while. Ashara had agreed to do something this year— a movie that Arthur said had been their Maiden's Day tradition when they were kids. Something about weddings. Jaime couldn't recall exactly what Arthur had said — at that moment he'd been a little more fixated on getting Arthur out of his clothes than on paying attention to the details.

Then, hopefully, they would all be coming back here for dinner — Tyrion and Tysha joining them, too. Now that Tyrion had gotten far away from Dad — enough that he wasn't involved in the details of his life anymore — both of them were doing much better.

"So we're tricking her into coming over for dinner?"

"I wouldn't say tricking. More like persuading."

"If you don't make a big deal out of it, she'll probably agree," Allyria said, idly stabbing her waffle with her fork. "Just ask her."

"I'm not making a big deal out of it. I'm specifically thinking about it now so I don't make a big deal out of it when I ask."

"She's your sister, not a skittish animal," Jaime said— Everyone had baggage around certain things, but from what he'd seen of Ashara, he didn't think she would be frightened off by much of anything.

"I'm pretty sure she only agreed to this because it's her favorite movie—"

"Even though it's _ terrible," _ Allyria interjected.

"I just don't want her to run away again," Arthur said, quietly.

"You want me to ask her? I promise not to make a big deal out of it," Jaime offered— he had other things on his mind.

"Would you?" Under the table, he hooked his ankle around Jaime's — the same warm, fluttery hope from last night lit in his chest again.

"When have I ever made a big deal out of anything?" Jaime asked.

* * *

 

They parted ways with Allyria in the subway station — she had a lunch date that Arthur was somehow resisting the urge to tease her about. For them, it would be a long ride into the city center, though thankfully no transfers.

Arthur didn't like to be super affectionate around strangers, and Jaime didn't mind it, exactly. They wasn't a secret, he told himself. They weren't hiding. They sat close, their knees pressed together, and Arthur let his fingers rest brushing against Jaime's thigh.

It wasn't like Jaime would want much more, though— Years of sneaking around left him feeling exposed around other people, sometimes, and it was a hard habit to shake, even though he knew this was nothing to be ashamed of. This was Arthur, who he loved—

Did Arthur remember what he'd said? The question waited on the tip of Jaime's tongue, but he knew this was a conversation better had alone.

_ Please _ let Arthur love him, he silently entreated the gods, his heart beating painfully once, twice, thrice. He hooked his fingers into Arthur's and was rewarded with a little smile.

"So, we're finally meeting the mystery boyfriend," Jaime said. He couldn't ask Arthur what he really wanted to until tonight, probably— he needed something else for now. A distraction. "How much do you know about this guy?"

"He's Northern," Arthur said. "And apparently he's okay with doing whatever level of holiday stuff Ashara wants."

"You seriously don't know anything else?"

Arthur shrugged. "She's bringing him to meet us, she's never done that before. So she's serious about this."

"But how  _ long _ have they been dating?"

"Year and a half, maybe two?" At Jaime's look, Arthur defended, "She's always done things on her own timeline. She always tells, eventually."

They got their first glimpse when they came up through the station — Ashara waiting by the long stairwell out, scrolling through her phone. The guy next to her spotted them and tugged at her hand until she looked up.

"I guess he knows what we look like."

Jaime shrugged. "You two look a lot alike," he said.

"No we don't," Arthur argued—

"You don't what?" Ashara asked.

"We don't look alike—"

"You do," Jaime said, in unison with Ashara's boyfriend—

"Ned Stark," he introduced himself as he shook hands with Arthur, and then—

"Jaime Lannister," Jaime said—

"Oh," he said, in a voice that dripped with disapproval— Jaime tensed, not entirely sure what for— "That's why you look familiar—" Ned pressed his hand to his forehead. "My friend dated your sister for a while."

Not disapproving of  _ Jaime, _ then? He thought back— what was his name? "Robert?"

Ned nodded. "Yeah."

"What exactly happened with that?" Jaime hadn't heard from her except her recent texts, asking him to come back— then as he left them unanswered, turning snappish and harsh again.

His mouth flattened. "He decided that he was in love with my sister and flew out to surprise her for Maiden's Day. She told him to fuck off. He tried to go back to Cersei and, reading between the lines, I think she also told him to fuck off. Other than that, he's never said."

"He didn't treat her well," Arthur said, carefully neutral.

"No, he didn't," Ned agreed.

Was it weird to be glad she hadn't taken Robert back? Jaime was far past any feelings of jealousy, but from what he had seen, they only made each other miserable.

Had Cersei ever really been happy? Even when they were kids? Tyrion had it right — the Lannisters weren't a happy family. But Dad had decided to send her to law school after all, Jaime had heard. It was what she had wanted— maybe Dad was giving up on trying to drag Jaime back, and focusing his efforts on the one who wanted it. Who knew  _ what _ this might unleash on the world, but maybe she would find something to be happy about.

The theater wasn't a long walk away from the station, but when they got there, it wasn't a theater after all. It was some kind of hall, mostly tiled, and covered with tarps. Jaime looked around. There was, like, the eighth person he'd seen wearing the same suit and glasses, and some people were carrying swords, and there, by the coat check, some guy shed his heavy winter coat revealing... body paint? What the fuck was happening? Standing room up front by a portable projector screen, where the tarps were heaviest. Rows of seats behind, the first few rows marked with red tape.

"A couple rows behind that?" Ned suggested. "Just in case."

"What the fuck is happening?" Jaime asked Arthur, trying to keep his voice low as they took their seats.

"Splash zone," he said, as if that explained everything.

"What?"

Ashara turned. "Didn't you tell him?" she asked, with a kind of scary grin. Jaime didn't really like the glint in her eye.

"You said you'd seen this before?" Arthur said, tilting his head—

Well. He might have said that. "I don't really remember that conversation."

Arthur thought back. "Oh. Right." There was that kind of glow to his face, the way he looked after a particularly intense workout, that Jaime had learned was the way a blush showed up against darker skin. "It's a mockumentary about Dothraki weddings. Some people get really into it."

All the people in minimal clothing and body paint were starting to make a little more sense. "How into it?" Jaime eyed the tarps.

"Reenacting some of the scenes— but the event page specifically said no throwing people around this time, liability reasons—"

"Also, there's a kind of mosh pit bloodbath near the end—"

"Which is why I wanted to sit a little further back."

"Arthur only likes it for the social commentary," Ashara said, rolling her eyes.

"And the effects are terrible. It's hilarious."

Jaime looked between the three of them.  _ "What _ kind of Maiden's Day tradition is this?"

"The  _ best _ one," Ashara said.

Jaime looked around at all the people. Apparently this  _ was _ a thing. "How—" he started to ask, but then the lights dimmed and everyone started screaming. He jumped—

"You're supposed to scream every time someone raises a weapon," Ashara said, helpfully.

"That… that sounds like it'll be a lot," Jaime said.

They all nodded. "Yeah."

By pretty much every standard, the movie was terrible. Jaime wasn't convinced that all of the actors understood what was going on, even just thematically— Jaime wasn't sure what was going on, himself. Even just from a consistency standpoint — several times an extra was killed onscreen only to appear again a couple of shots later, in some scenes the blood looked almost real, and in others, it was obviously red paint— the stage-fighting so clumsy that when a stray hit actually connected, Jaime flinched.

He glanced over, and Arthur was watching him, a little soft smile on his face that tightened into sheepishness when he saw that Jaime had noticed.

"Just wanted to see if you were enjoying it," he murmured, leaning in.

Jaime tugged Arthur closer against him so he could wrap his arm around Arthur's shoulders. "Yeah."

When the lights came back on afterwards, the hall was splattered in fake blood, full of people soaked in it — it would suck to be the organizer, or whoever'd be stuck with cleaning all this up.  _ What the fuck _ was still on the tip of his tongue, but Arthur was smiling and so Jaime just held on to his hand as they picked their way back out to the street, avoiding blood puddles.

"Do you guys have any plans after?" Jaime asked Ashara and Ned instead, trying his best to be casual about it. "We're making dinner— family thing. My brother's coming over, too."

"Yeah, sure— I figured you were going to ask," she said, punching Arthur in the shoulder.

"Am I that predictable?"

"Yes."

The subway was packed with a mix of people in blood-soaked clothes carrying styrofoam weapons and couples dressed up for dinner dates. Ashara and Ned were talking without saying anything— his eyes pointing out bewildered looks and nervous movements while she struggled to keep a straight face.

"They're pretty cute," Jaime said in an undertone as they grabbed seats. "You approve?"

"Don't have any reason not to," Arthur said, putting his arm around Jaime's shoulders and brushing a kiss against his cheek.

Jaime wanted a real kiss so badly — no, not on the subway, he told himself. Tonight, when they were home and alone and he had Arthur all to himself again, and they could curl up together and kiss without interruption, and then— then, he could ask what had happened last night. This morning. He sighed and leaned his head against Arthur's arm. He needed to know, but he didn't want to ask.

The next time they saw the sky, at the end of the long flight of stairs that would bring them back above ground, it was dark — there had been a little light before, even through the clouds, but the sun was setting earlier and earlier these days.

"Goddammit," Ashara said ahead of them, flipping her hood up over the hat she was wearing. "Snow."

It was just starting to stick around instead of melting as soon as it hit the ground, a patchy white dusting collecting at their feet. They left dark prints behind with each step, but Arthur didn't notice— his gaze was fixed up at the sky and Jaime guided him by the arm to keep him from crashing into anything.

"It's pretty," Ashara grudgingly admitted. "But when you have to dig yourself out of the house, the novelty wears off."

"I don't live in a house," Arthur said. "Someone else has to deal with it — we just get the snow days." He stopped, frowning. "When do they call it a snow day?"

"Depends on how well equipped they are to deal with snow around here," Ned answered. "We've had snow up North for a couple of years now, and Benjen says they haven't cancelled school yet."

_ "Years?"  _ Jaime asked.

"Years," Ashara confirmed, with the sort of gravity one would expect from a judge at sentencing.

"It even snows in the summers, sometimes."

"That's fucked up," Jaime said—

_ "Thank you—" _ Ashara said, shaking Ned by the arm. "See, he agrees." Ned just smiled.

Arthur was still looking into the sky, not paying attention.

"I think we need a moment," Jaime said. "If you want to go ahead, Allyria will let you in."

"Yes, please— it's freezing." She squeezed closer to Ned's side. "Bring him back before he turns into an icicle."

"Yeah." He slipped his hand into Arthur's, getting his attention. "Let's get out of the way?" People all around them were hurrying to get off the streets — headed home, or to a date, or just to get out of the unexpected weather. It was quieter in the a little park behind the subway station — trees that had lost their leaves, running trails, a pond soon to be frozen over.

Arthur followed him out — maybe they'd walk around the pond before going back in. From little bubble of light to little bubble of light, leaving footprints in the gathering snow behind them. Huge flakes catching in Arthur's dark hair, lingering there— others landing on his face, startlingly white against his skin only for a moment before they melted away.

He stopped to watch as it began to flurry down heavier, and reached out for Jaime. All the world went soft and white as they linked their hands together, the snow dampening everything into an eerie quietness. They were the only two people in the world— Jaime was so sure, yet not quite enough. He had learned to watch for the things Arthur didn't say, but it was still something he needed to hear.

"Hey—" he asked. "Do you remember what you said last night? This morning, I guess."

"Not specifically— I said a lot of things." Arthur's brows hunched down. "What is it— was I a dick?"

Jaime shook his head. Furthest thing from it. "You said you loved me," he said quietly.

"Yeah," Arthur said, just as softly. His hands tightened around Jaime's. "That's true."

The nervous tension flooded out of him. Jaime folded himself against Arthur's chest, wrapped his arm around Arthur's waist. He needed to be close, needed to steady himself.

"I guess you meant it, too," Arthur said. His eyes had fluttered shut and he cupped Jaime's face, pressing their foreheads together.

What? "When did I?"

"I heard you telling your father, before we left. Didn't know if you meant it." He was softer even than the snow— if Jaime had been a step away, he wouldn't have heard.

"You waited all year to find out?" It wasn't funny, but the shaky breath he let out sounded a little like laughter. "Were you ever going to say anything?"

"I didn't want to pressure you. In case you were just saying it to shut him up."

"I love you—" Jaime said in a rush. "I've been wanting to tell you all fucking year—"

Arthur's eyes shut, and Jaime saw a smile morph over his face for just a moment before they were kissing so deeply that Jaime almost forgot where his body ended and Arthur's began.

"I love you," Arthur said, drawing back just enough to say the words. "And I always will." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not completely happy with this but leaving it unfinished was stressing me out. 
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking with me through this <3
> 
> I'm on tumblr at: [peggycarterisacat](https://peggycarterisacat.tumblr.com/) for general fandom stuff, [peggycarterisacat-fic](https://peggycarterisacat-fic.tumblr.com/) for fic updates.


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